


Follow Me

by CompletelyCreative



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Asthma, Big family, Bullying, Closeted Character, Homophobic Language, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Mentions Of Schizophrenia, Nerd Castiel, Punk Dean, Speech Disorders, casturbation, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-03-19 08:36:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3603519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CompletelyCreative/pseuds/CompletelyCreative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love is often imagined in the form of soft skin in dark times, words yelled into the rain, and pastel colors. It is often lived through deep breaths, clear sight, and green moors. For Castiel Novak, however, Love was something unimagined, unthought of. And it certainly didn’t warp itself into rusty spikes on dry leather, choked words quieter than silence itself, and dark greens and reds. His life was breathed through wheezes and coughs, seen through thick-framed glasses, and the only blue skies ever noticed were the ones captured in his eyes, always half-lidded and looking down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wednesday, September 13, 1995

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this is the first chapter in a fic that I don't currently know the length to. I've been planning this out and thinking about it for a really long time and I really hope you enjoy it! Thanks for reading! xx
> 
> **Ratings may change as the story progresses.
> 
> All thanks to my beta Em (deansdemonhair)

Wednesday, September 13, 1995

Castiel Novak was once told by someone that he was comparable to the wind on a cold day — unafraid to crash into anything and throw the entire world off balance in a bout of shivers and cloudy breath. And that someone was right. He had the ability to crash into everyone he was avoiding, and avoid everyone he wanted to crash into. And when he crashed, he fell. Often in a flurry of ripped paper, spilt coffee, and a pair of very scratched glasses. Truman High School Varsity Jackets would fade out from the dying breeze as finished summer reports would float to the ground in a new failed grade alongside a wheezy breath let out in finality of energy found in a now-spilled cup of coffee. 

Castiel pushed himself off of the waxed floor and rubbed his eyes, blinking into a fuzzy, double-visioned mass of colors. They knocked him to and fro, and he was soon on the floor once again, right beside the dark spill of coffee trickling closer to him. He tightened his hands on the floor around him, scrambling to find his black glasses in a jungle of black leggings and black sneakers. He was useless without them.

‘Hey, Novak.’ A pair of bright red and green shoes appeared at Castiel’s knees. ‘Looking for these?'

Before he could respond, the heavy frame was shoved onto his face, and two hard blinks revealed the two colored shoes to be a pair of converse, sporting the Joker from D.C. — classic comics. Castiel dropped his head, sighed, and nodded.

‘Hey, Charlie.'

A pale hand yanked him up, bringing him to see above her red hair. Charlie clicked her heels together as he straightened his frames and dusted his pants off. The rushing current of students was starting to diminish as the classroom doors started closing one but one. The two ignored the diaspora.

‘You like them? They were on sale for like thirty bucks when I was in Florida on vacation. I think they’re limited —‘ 

She was cut off by the monotonous blare of the bell: the signal of the official start of first semester. Castiel snapped his gaze around the empty corridor — first day of junior year, and he was already late for class. 

‘Aw, shit…’ He rubbed his eyes and fell to his knees for a third time, sweeping his arms around the trampled, stained, and torn papers around him and shuffling them up. ‘First day and I’m already going to have a failing grade… I didn’t get any sleep last night, I’m already late to class, and now I’m going to get an F on a report I worked on for two –' Charlie reached out and steadied his shaking hands. Arctic blue eyes rose to meet ash grey ones and she took the stack of paper from him. 

‘Hey, breathe. It’s only the first day of Junior year. It’s not the end of the world, it’s just the beginning of the semester. And these lab reports,’ she fanned through the papers and snapped them straight, ‘Look fine to me. You just gotta… air them out from the coffee stink. You never get any sleep anyway, and you can always get coffee from the cafeteria during your frees–‘

‘I don’t have any free periods this semester.'

‘How is that even… never mind, then during my frees, or whatever. Besides, I don’t see what’s so good about that rare coffee you drown yourself in anyway. It’s too bitter.' She took a piece of graphing paper and mopped the cold coffee trailing on the floor. ‘What’s it even called? Celestial coffee...'

‘Holy Mountain’s Chromatic Coffee.'

‘Yeah, Chromatic Mountain’s too-bitter-for-the-soul coffee.’ She grinned as she took a long-shot of the sullied paper into a trash bin. ‘And who cares if you’re late? It’s the first day of school. So what? Just tell them you got lost or something.’ She held her hand out again to Castiel, smiling, and pulled him back to his feet. ‘Now, keep your things in your bag from now on, and take your inhaler – you’re breathing like Darth Vader.’

She shoved the papers into his chest and held out a stone blue inhaler. It was Castiel’s – it must have been kicked away in his fall when he couldn't see. He took it in gratitude and breathed in a deep puff of the medicine.

‘See? Already better.’

He nodded and reached out his hand to ruffle her short hair. She ducked away, laughing.

‘Alright, not that much!’ He gave a toothless smile.

‘What would I do without you, Charles?’ She shrugged and they started walking down the hall, looking left and right at the large numbers on closed doors.

‘Well, for starters, you’d still be on the floor.’ Castiel laughed aloud at that.

‘Which brings me to another question… How have you not decided to just leave me yet?'

‘Oh come on, I knew you in eighth grade in your ‘dark’ phase. Compared to then, you’re like an angel now.’ 

Charlie was Castiel’s oldest and (of course) only friend. They had known each other since seventh grade when she moved in as a new student. She was placed in his English class — one of the few classes that he earned an 80 average for his final card, which was much lower than average for a Novak. When they got paired for a character evaluation project, Castiel had no say in the choice of the evaluation of each member of The Fantastic Four. And when he informed her that he in fact didn’t even know who Stan Lee was, he was immediately pulled into the world of Comic Books, Superheroes, and the ever-going battle between Marvel Comics and D.C.. And when he didn’t know who Harvey was, or why Peter Parker was a man of Spiders, he was sat down for lesson after lesson of 'the history of Marvel, D.C., and Image', with theories, pairings, and storylines – the whole nine yards. By the time the last lesson about 'Rogers and Barnes' had [finished], it was the summer before eighth grade, the year that Castiel painted his fingernails black and tried (and failed) to straighten his thick hair. But by then, Charlie had deemed her pop-culture teachings to be satisfactory, and they stayed friends. Years passed, eighth, ninth, tenth grade, and now, on the first day of Junior Year, they were still friends, walking down the empty halls, counting numbers on plates and minutes on the clock.

‘FUCK!'

They had reached the end of the hall when Charlie jumped. 'Room 304… I’m on the bottom floor! That’ll put three more minutes on my record!' 

Although she was practiced in coaxing Castiel out of perpetual fear of a D-, Charlie often forgot about her own affairs. She was always too busy helping others, and the next thing she knew, she was going to be ten minutes late for a class she almost failed in Sophomore year, with a teacher she almost put in the hospital in Freshman year – on accident, of course. 

‘Bye, Charlie!’ Castiel called, ‘And those shoes really do fit you!' A distant ‘Vulcan' sign was flashed and Charlie rounded the corner. Castiel now stood alone in front of room 304: Chemistry with Ms. Celeste, a strict woman with controlling tendencies. He wiped his glasses on his sweater and traced over the pearl-white rims before fitting them back on his nose with two fingers.

He pushed the door open with a loud creak (courtesy of the rusty hinges), which announced Castiel’s arrival into a room of pure silence. He could feel the entire class drag their eyes to his tense stance, one hand on the door handle and the other gripping the stained papers of his summer report. The door creaked shut at his push, welcoming the pure quiet at his back. He was reluctant to turn to the stern look that presented Ms. Celeste. Her Steel gray eyes sharply pointed a question at him without her even asking it out loud, and he tried not to trip over his tongue to get the answer out.

‘Uhh, I was… I was, uh, In the hallway. Something... spilled…' He scratched the back of his neck and started toward an empty seat, but an overly-calm voice halted him before he could get very far. 

‘And what makes you think that excuses you, Mr… Novak?’ She spoke the name as if it were a bitter aftertaste. Castiel instantly connected the expression with his older brother Gabriel, and could only imagine what he put her through to give his younger brother a reputation before an impression.

‘Uhh…’ He squeezed his eyes as Charlie’s voice came back to him in the hallway. ‘Uh, well, I just thought, that since it was the first say and all, and I haven’t ever really explored this part of the school…’ A light tsk hitched his words as Ms. Celeste walked back and forth in front of him, hands behind her back. The entire class’s attention was trained on the two of them, and Castiel nearly winced as he saw two variety jacket hanging on chairs in the back of the room. He was never going to forget this.

‘A student who thinks he can just… ‘get away,’ hmm?'

‘Oh, no–'

‘And talk out of turn? I see...'

‘I– I really think you might be confusing me with my older brother–'

‘You’re not making a very good impression, Mr. Novak, and you know it.'

‘Really–'

‘I strongly suggest you try to amend that by quietly making your way to your seat and keeping that smart mouth of yours closed until you are out of my classroom, Novak.’

Castiel shut his mouth in defeat and tripped his way to his seat, dropping his summer reports on his desk. The dirty bootmarks and coffee stains were now extremely visible to him. His eyes snapped back up to Ms. Celeste at the front of the room, who was now scanning the rows with her arms crossed. All the students had finally brought their unwelcome attention away from Castiel, waiting for Ms. Celeste to give some sort of instruction.

Unfortunately, they weren’t as lucky.

‘It’s such a shame, too, that even our new student to this school came before Mr. Novak – they didn’t properly meet each other.’ Castiel's head shot up with newfound attention. The last time they got a new student in their class was Charlie in sixth grade. And that evidently went far.

He couldn’t help blurting out in excitement.

‘A new–‘ But Ms. Celeste caught him in his words and snapped him back.

‘I thought I told you to keep that mouth closed!’ Damn. Castiel glared at her as he stopped talking, and started to glance silently around.

‘Eyes at the front!’ She picked up a clipboard and started ticking off marks of attendance, most likely. ‘It’s not the new student’s nor my fault that you came late, but we have to move on now…’ She turned to the board at the front with a glance at Castiel, slumped in his seat and looking at her from over his glasses.

The rest of class was silent through a simple biology review worksheet, occasionally interrupted by ‘Eyes on your own paper, Novak!’ and ‘Up at the front, Novak!’ Castiel made a note to ask Gabriel – or ‘Gabe’, as he insisted – what the hell kind of atrocities he committed on this poor teacher for her to inherently hate him so much. He supposed, though, he wasn’t helping his own case by turning around with every chance he thought he could get. The whole ‘new student’ idea had him twisting in restless curiosity.

When there were only five minutes left in class, Castiel got his chance to fulfill his wondering. Ms. Celeste seemed to have gotten bored with her intimidation agenda, and was sitting at her desk, reading a documentary on what seemed to be the "Discipline of The Delinquent Mind". She had her head propped up in her left hand, passive to the business of the class. Castiel scribbled the last problem in and dropped his pen to the desk, letting it clatter on the plastic. Ms. Celeste didn’t look up. He slowly turned in his chair, scanning right, left, behind…

Castiel squinted his eyes. Was she lying to just humiliate him? He swept the room again, just happening to be in the dead center of everybody. Right-front, left-front, immediate-right, immediate-left, back-right, back-left...

And that when he saw him.

Sitting in the far left corner of the room, next to the two Varsity Jackets, was a sight to be seen for Truman High School. There was a broad boy with his legs splayed out from under his desk, bent casually. He had bright red hair flipped up and cropped close, yet his natural hair weaved up into the cherry color. An over-worn, over-sized, dark leather jacket hung on the boy’s Offspring t-shirt, and his entire left sleeve was decorated in pins of many bands, souvenirs, and what Castiel thought was a comic. Ripped jeans hung over wide hips and combat boots with dull, rusty studs down the spines. The boy was playing with two black spider bites on the left side of his bottom lip, which was scabbed and chewed. A full corkscrew ran up his right ear, which, along with any other skin that showed, was the dance floor for hundreds of delicate freckles. His features were big and drew attention, but he looked like the kind of person that didn’t want it. Even so, Castiel glanced up to these apple-green eyes that were fixed on… Castiel himself.

Castiel snapped back to the front at the toneless bell and shoved his things into his bag. He looked around as he joined the crowd of kids with dropped schedules and hall passes, but as soon as he saw the red-haired boy, he mixed into the crowd. Castiel took a deep breath, wiped his eyes under his glasses, and walked straight into Charlie.

‘Easy there, Tiger,’ she laughed as she brushed past him, ‘Blush, much?’ Castiel felt his face heat up even further as he realized his cheeks were probably as red as that boy’s hair. He shook his head and hurried on to History.

The rest of the week was full of Varsity Jackets knocking Castiel to the floor, puffs of his inhaler, and that red-haired boy. By the end of that Wednesday, Castiel realized that there were in almost all the same core classes except Math. On Thursday, he got seated next to red-hair in English. Castiel offered him a word – 'hello' – and the boy didn’t give one back. By Friday, he heard the name ‘Dean Winchester’ three times in the hall and twice in class attendances, and automatically associated such a name with the boy. By the walk home that afternoon with Charlie, she half-jokingly declared that he was in love.

‘Shut up,’ he pushed her lightly, just a bit closer to the curb. ‘I’ve never even talked to him, okay? He’s just a new student.'

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ she shoved back, ‘You’re not the only one. By lunch yesterday, every girl with the letter ‘A’ in her name was fixed on him.'

‘What? Really?'

‘Ha! Got ya!’ Castiel rolled his eyes.

‘Oh, so you take a liking to him then, Charlie?'

‘Hah, not a chance,’ she scoffed, ‘Unlike you, I’m comfortable with who I wanna bang. I’m waiting for my Ginger Spice!’ Castiel kicked at a rock in front of him and laughed.

‘Yeah, well...'

‘And, well, you still want to get with Cherry Bomb back there.'

‘I do not! I told you, he’s been around for like a day, I barely know his name and haven’t even talked to him. No way.'

‘’No way’ my ass.'

‘And, if what you said is true about every girl trailing after him, then I wouldn’t have a chance with him, even if I did like him. Which. I. Don’t.’ Charlie slung her arm over his shoulder.

‘Ahhh, the adventures of the hopeful lesbian and the hopeless p…. what is it?'

‘Pansexual Homoromantic.'

‘Yeah, that… what an odd couple we are!’ Castiel shrugged her off and wiped his hands on his pants. ‘Anyway, this is my stop, so I’ll see you, Novak.' She waved and jogged off down a one-way street, leaving Castiel to walk the rest of the way home alone.

After ten more minutes of silent walking, Castiel approached a white house. It had hanging wooden lamps and thin columns in front and he still wasn’t sure if were for support or decoration. The long driveway led directly to the three black marble steps raising a small jade-black door. Castiel tilted the statue of Jesus beside the doormat and kicked the house key out from under it, and let himself in. The interior of the building corresponded cleanly with the exterior –marble floors; white walls; narrow halls and black doors; and at nearly each corner, there were expensive, small sculptures of holy persons that Castiel never cared enough to remember the names of. He jogged up the cold stairs and called out the names of the ones he did know, though: his brothers.

‘Gabe? Michael? Anyone home?’ His voice echoed through the too-grand house. Nobody home. Even so, he went down the narrow hallway to knock on each black door: M.G.N., no answer; G.W.N., no answer. Castiel paused over the third door on the right, labelled A.C.N., for his older sister, Anna. She was 19, second youngest in the family and free as a bird. She graduated from a high-up boarding school she was sent to – as opposed to Gabriel and Castiel, who were dropped at Truman’s Public School – like Michael, who got sent there as well. She was always ‘Daddy’s little girl’, being the only girl out of the four, but after their father took off on a missionary trip and made a point of never coming back, she couldn’t stand being under Michael’s strict instruction. So she grabbed her things when she was 18, and the last Castiel heard, she was in Alaska. Living in a wide-windowed house on a pier, smoking all the pot and having all the sex she wanted. She always told Castiel to ‘live like it was last day on Earth’, and to ‘watch the clock, because a lot can change in a minute’s notice.’ Now, as he ran his thumb over the red-painted ‘A’, he supposed she was right. But almost seventeen years was a long time to watch the clock.

Castiel didn’t bother going down the rest of the hallway, as he knew that each door he knocked would knock back in the echoes of empty rooms. Instead, he turned on his heel to walk to the fourth door on the left wall of the hall, labelled in a shiny blue, ‘C.J.N.’. He twisted the brass knob and slipped into the cool room, the window open and a light summer breeze making the short curtains billow apart. 

The room was not big, spacious, or ornate, like the rest of the house. Instead, it was rather cozy and long, with one window and dark, wooden flooring. The doorway extended a bit before opening to the room’s fuller size, and the ceiling reached a height of eight feet, dwarfed compared to the higher twelve feet in the front hall. The walls of the bedroom were a cornflower blue, painted 13 years ago, and the rich chocolate varnish was scratched under the scrapes of chairs and broken desks. A simple cream-colored corner-desk was pushed against the left corner of the room, next to the wide window, and it had a metal-framed gray chair swiveled next to it. The wheels of it often caught on the rough scratches of previous wooden legs. A twin bed stretched out from the right wall, dressed with soft, thick sheets, and next to it was a tall hickory dresser. On top of the drawers were a Bose alarm radio, a dusty debate trophy from the seventh grade, and two disks, two bottles of capsules and sleeping pills, and one inhaler next to a tall glass of water. They were to be taken twice a day, once a day, and whenever needed, always with fluid.

On the small wall opposite the window, next to the door to the hall, was a sliding jade-black door that gave entrance to a small checkered bathroom with a standing shower, a rounded sink and mirror cabinet, and toilet. In the cabinet were the basic things needed in an average asthmatic teenage insomniac’s life: two extra inhalers, for if the others were lost or fell faulty, one package of each medication for when they ran out before the next month’s prescription, and lotion.

Castiel’s room was not grand. It did not display a wall of detention slips like Gabriel’s room did; it was not furnished for presentation like Michael’s was; and it didn’t have a drop-down ladder to sneak out like Anna’s . But it was cozy, warm, and it was enough.

Castiel dropped his backpack beside his desk and fell back onto his bed, blocking his eyes with his forearms from the streaming sunlight. He could feel the impressions that the bags under his eyes made in weight of exhaustion, but couldn’t bring himself to sleep. Instead, he pulled his walkman out from under his bed and spun it on, tapping his foot to the voice of Ginger Spice, and seeing red hair when he closed his eyes.

He couldn’t make out who’s it was.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my beta Em (deansdemonhair)

Friday, September 29, 1995  
‘Pick up those feet, ladies!' The raucous voice of Coach Turner boomed down the gym, loud enough to reach the other side, where the soles of Castiel’s shoes were squeaking as he jogged tiredly. He had fallen behind the rest of the class in the four-lap sprint around the borders of the basketball court and, of course, no one was passing the chance up to remind him every time they lapped him. The old bruises from last week were just starting to fade, but they were now replaced with new marks as he fell with each shove of a passing shoulder.

Castiel didn’t have a good relationship with other students in Truman High. He was always known for his stronger opinions and thoughts towards things, like how the school system was flawed or that sports weren’t worth many people’s time. Of course, being in Truman, those ideas were immediately discarded, and Castiel lost count of how many times he was cynical at best. He voiced these opinions often; he even used to be on a debate team, but quit in Eighth Grade. So, he became a target. From the first bell of Freshman year, a flash of a red-and-grey jacket was a bad omen, and having to ‘go to the bathroom’ five times in one class was worth it if it meant avoiding the quarterback of the football team. Or captain of the basketball team. Or anyone from any team, for that matter. As the years of high school progressed, though, more people became more involved in the sports-centric theme of Truman High School. There were two athletes in every room at any given time. It was like they came in pairs – Castiel never saw one alone. They were everywhere, unavoidable, and there was no longer a point for Castiel to hide under the bleachers of the football stadium for the entirety of lunch – he would be found anyway. So, he endured it – the constant pushing and falling, and being kept on the ground too.

The past three weeks were then, by Castiel’s standards, perfectly routine. He fell more than he walked, and by Tuesday of last week he had bought an actual travel coffee mug, and learned to keep all his things in every pocket of his bag. One teacher loved him, two teachers despised him, and three teachers still didn’t know his name. Whether they liked or hated him, though, no one could deny that he was at the top of almost every class. That is, except for English.

English was never Castiel’s best subject. He mostly averaged out at an 87.5% for the class, but the most recent 79% earned on a short paper – unfortunately not about superheroes – had him running his hands through his thick hair and downing pots of coffee. He spent three days fretting about his habits and finding the cause to the lousy C+. Charlie, of course, immediately jumped to a new conclusion that Castiel was (maybe on purpose) refusing to consider. English was never Castiel’s best subject, but it might be even worse with the new distraction just to the right of his own desk.

Although Castiel didn’t like to admit it, he felt like a bull; because he was seeing red everywhere. It was of course always accompanied by a pinned leather jacket and torn jeans. Whether it was in the hallway, in a drive-by McDonald’s, or right next to himself in class, Castiel simply couldn’t seem to keep the red at bay. But neither could anyone else.

By the beginning of the second week of school, everyone seemed to know Dean Winchester’s name. They all wanted him on their team for his build or in their class for simple bragging rights. All the girls thought that he was the new Seb Rohke of the school, and all the guys thought he was the new Mark Crowley of the fitness center. The students of Truman High always got excited over new students, and always tried to snatch up the newest transfer or exchange before anyone else could. But for Dean Winchester, everyone simply just… admired from afar. It was like he was the most popular guy in school, but had no actual friends. Castiel would find this strange in other occasions – everyone would – but for once it made sad sense. If there was one thing (of many) that Castiel noticed, was that no matter what you would say, Dean Winchester never said anything back. (There was, of course, one girl who said he did talk to her. Amanda Heckerling claimed he had a deep husky voice that swam in confidence; naturally, every girl in school believed her.)

Castiel only attempted to get a word out of Dean three times before giving up. The first was on the first Wednesday of the school year – ‘hi’, with nothing in return. The second was on the next Tuesday – ‘you’re Dean, right?’ with only a glance towards Castiel that sent his own blue gaze falling to the ground. The third was this past Friday – A failed ‘um’ when Castiel dropped his pencil between the boy’s feet. Words failed him that last time, and he ended up ducking under the desks and pushing the utensil over to himself with trembling hands. When he came back up with a red face, the boy’s apple-green eyes were locked on Castiel.

Castiel didn’t take any notes that day.

That afternoon on that Friday, he asked Charlie if Dean Winchester brought a nervous feeling to everyone in the school. She shrugged.

‘I dunno, I don’t really care for the guy all that much. I mean, with that body and those piercings, he’s not exactly the kind of guy I would pick a fight with. The rest of the school has probably noticed that too, so they’re probably trying to get on the guy’s good side. But nerves? Not really.’ Castiel ran the rest of the way home that day.

 

The squeaking of the Castiel’s rubber soles finally slowed to a halt on the gym flow, and he doubled over halfway to his knees. He was, of course, the last to finish the four lap sprint, and his heavy wheezing was drowned out by the laughs of Mark Crowley and two other Truman Track stars. They had raced to the finish together when Castiel was in the middle of his second lap, barely breaking a sweat and tackling each other by the torsos. None of them passed up a chance to knock Castiel's shoulder as they passed him with each lap, and as soon as Coach Turner started encouraging the rest of the ‘ladies’ to ‘pick up their feet’, they immediately chimed in with their own ‘encouraging’ jeers. A known favorite was, ‘What’s that I hear? I think it’s a whistle… oh no, it’s just Novak!’, and, ‘Deep breaths, class, deep breaths… sorry Novak, you can’t do this one.’ It was really just a game to them.

‘Class dismissed,’ echoed against the plastic bleachers and the students filed out of the gym, going to their separate locker rooms. Coach Turner slapped Castiel on the back, sending a bout of coughs through his bod, and walked with him out of the hall. ‘Well, Novak, I can’t really say how much you’re improved since last gym class.’ Castiel’s throat was too dry to add the comment that the last gym class was also ‘the other day, Coach, if you’re really expecting me to run a mile in a day.’ 

‘…But if you try, and don’t stop running… I believe you can make it.’ Castiel’s hands were now shaking for the inhaler, and his eyes were unfocused. Coach held it an arm’s length away from him.

‘You promise you’ll try?’ Castiel nodded frantically and started to open his clammy hands, but the demand for empty promises stopped him. ‘I want to hear you say it.'

Castiel wasn’t sure that was entirely possible. He took one – no, two – no, three halting breaths before wheezing out an ‘I promise…'

Thankfully, it was enough. Coach Turner slapped him on the back once again, and tossed the inhaler to him. Castiel didn’t bother to hear the fading ‘That’s what I want to hear!’ as he gripped the medicine and almost jogged to the locker room.

The locker room was at the end of a long hallway of elective classes, and Castiel kept his shoulder against the red lockers as he stumbled down. He was starting to trip on his own feet, and his free hand frantically scratched at the base of his throat to try and penetrate an unsatisfied itch. He didn’t bother looking up, but kept his eyes on his weak knees and willed them not to collapse when he rounded the corner to the door of the locker rooms. He didn’t apologize when he nearly collided with a tall body leaning against the same wall he was dragging himself across. He didn’t widen his watering eyes at the red that flashed as he swerved to avoid the person – he was coughing too dryly from the faint waft of pot to care. His heart was beating too urgently to hear anything.

As soon as Castiel passed the first door to the locker room, he brought the inhaler to his lips. His fingers slipped and fumbled with the lever and switch, and he was too busy bending over himself to feel a push until he was on the ground, glasses crooked and hands empty. Castiel felt the weight of 200 pounds distribute onto his back as someone stepped on his back. He could only see the make-up of black Converse stepping over his shoulder and jogging past him. Laughs and high fives echoed in his ears. One black foot kicked Castiel’s inhaler away from him and tossed it to the others. Castiel didn’t bother fixing his glasses as he pushed himself onto his sweaty hands and knees and scrambled to the bathroom stalls, hitting lockers and tripping over benches. His wheezing grew more granting with the slam of a red maroon stall door that he pulled in. It bounced from the swing – Castiel of course chose the stall that was secured with a broken seal, the lock kicked off in his Sophomore year. He slid down the raised wall and ran his hands through his hair, gripping the sides of his head.

Asthma was a common issue with Castiel, and he generally dealt with it well. Occasionally, though, when an attack came on and he was in public or he didn’t have an inhaler, a feeling washed over his body. A feeling of trembling hands, weak knees, and the feeling that Castiel was going to throw up. More specifically, in the event that Castiel has an asthma attack in public or without medication, the dooming fear washed over him that he was going to die. Even though the possibility was unlikely, that didn’t stop him from believing it, if only for the entertainment of Truman High Varsity players.

Castiel fidgeted with his fingers while he listened to the clamor of changing boys grow quieter. The bell eventually rang, and the locker room was empty, quiet again. The only thing breaking the silence was the whistle of Castiel’s breath… and the loud laughs of three athletes playing catch with Castiel’s inhaler, just a wall away. Castiel curled up into himself and locked his fingers behind his head, wanting to plug his ears and disappear. The itch, the burn in his chest was only growing, and Crowley had nowhere to be that he wasn’t in trouble – he had all day.

The pounding in Castiel’s head became rhythmic. Every second-and-a-half a thump against his brain pushed like a rabbit’s foot, and Castiel couldn’t tell if it was from the Asthma or Anxiety. Either way, he felt as if he was being suffocated. All he could do was listen.

He counted thirty-seven faraway knocks... until something else joined the beat.

From the outside of Castiel’s mind, the stomping of heavy shoes entered the room, the stride meeting every second-and-a-half. Castiel brought his head up from his knees, squinting, listening. The jeers of the athletes quieted as their attention turned to the announced visitor. They didn’t run, to Castiel’s dismay; they instead started chuckling again and walking to meet whomever it was that entered. 

‘Hey, look who it is!’ Crowley greeted the stranger. His cocky voice hit the walls with no response from the newcomer. The hammering in Castiel’s head grew louder – or it might have been the boots. Crowley wasn’t fazed by the silence, of course. Castiel could hear the rattle of his medicine as it was tossed in the air again. ‘We’ve got Novak’s life-supply here. Wanna –'

Castiel jumped as he heard a sudden slam against the lockers. Many yells accompanied the groan of metal, with ‘Put him down!’ and ‘You wanna piece of…’ washed away under a gruff voice saying things so quickly that Castiel couldn’t make it out. The thudding in his head grew unbearable with each slam and bang, each echoing every second-and-a-half. Bombs continuously went off in Castiel’s head.

And then the sounds halted altogether. The clatter of medicine to tiled floor chased the squeaking of Converse out of the locker room.

The door slammed and shook Castiel in silence. Every laugh, cheer, and hoot had left. The only sound landing at every second-and-a-half was the dripping of the rusty sink to the far left of the bathroom that got kicked broken in spring of ’93. Every boy had finally left for class or fear, and Castiel’s inhaler laid untouched in the fourth aisle of lockers.

And then it rattled again.

Castiel froze in his breath as the container was tossed up in the air and caught. The worst immediately came to mind. Had one of the athletes stayed behind? Did they hide from whomever came and sent the rest off? Castiel bit his lip, watching the scenarios play out on the stall door in from of him. He could hear them, whomever they were. They were turning his inhaler about in their hands, twisting it and clicking the lever. Castiel tried controlling his breath. Of course, he was immensely paranoid and expectant, that they were going to run off with the medicine and never give it back, that they were just itching to give him a sock in the gut. There was one thing (of many) that Castiel noticed, though, that made him just a bit more frightened than that; whoever was just a wall away from him, wasn’t talking. They weren’t taunting Castiel, or teasing him to come out. And at Truman, an Athlete never stayed quiet.

The pound of heavy shoes broke the idle quiet and Castiel closed his eyes. The shoes were someone closer, he could tell. They grew heavier, like they were on his head, turning right, then left, then right, until they were just in front of the stall. He held his breath, with a sweaty red face and watery blue eyes, and pulled his knees closer to himself.

The door swung slowly in and brought Castiel to the second-and-a-half shoes, leaning outward and caked in mud. His gaze traveled up the body blocking the light, past a Nirvana shirt, past a clenched fist, and his blue eyes wanted to blink a thousand times as they were flooded with a bright cherry red.

Castiel stared, frozen, as Dean Winchester stretched his hand out and leaned forward just the slightest bit. He tried not to flinch as the boy prompted him to take the offer, and Castiel found himself reaching and taking the extended hand with his own clammy one and pulling himself up, off of his own accord. He gazed up to the boy once his locked his weak knees, and felt his lips parting just slightly at the light being blocked. They stayed like that, standing in the shadowed stall together for a few long moments, before Dean silently turned their hands so his was on top. He dropped a stone blue inhaler that Castiel didn’t even notice into Castiel’s palm, and backed up from the security of the stall. The light of the room hit Castiel’s face properly once again, showing a blush on his already red face.

Castiel kept his eyes on his feet shuffling out of the stall and his hands fumbled with his medicine. It clattered to the floor and he jumped, closing his eyes for a second. His sigh was interrupted by two – no, three, – no, four dry coughs that brought no difference or satisfaction. Castiel squeezed his eyes tighter and gripped a stall door for support, and when he opened his eyes there was a hand outstretched before him, holding the inhaler yet again. Castiel swallowed and reached for it, but when green eyes fixed themselves on his shaking hands, Dean closed his hand around the medicine and drew it from Castiel.

‘Please, I really need…’ Dry air prevented Castiel from reaching complete sentences, but Dean wordlessly shoved him hand out to him again, just as quick as he took it away. This time, the inhaler’s lever was pulled, so all Castiel had to do was breathe. Green eyes watched him take the medicine and take a deep breath, his chest expanding with the medicine. Castiel clicked it a second time, and cleared his throat. ‘Uh… thanks, I… I needed this.’ He tried not to trip over his words and shoved his hands in his gym shorts pockets – there was no point in changing and embarrassing himself further – his clothes had probably been stolen by now. Dean Winchester probably didn’t have any more time for him anyway. Swimming in confidence and all, he must have had somewhere else to be. ‘Um…’ 

Whatever sentence Castiel had was gone, so he turned on his heel and started stiffly walking away. He kept one hand on the back of his neck and his eyes fixed on his feet, for if he didn’t he was sure his knees would give out right then and there. He could still feel green eyes following him, unblinking.

‘Um…’ A gravelly voice copied his own, but even quiet, so quiet that Castiel stopped and turned around. He look back to see red, with hands in pockets and toes tapping, almost nervously. But his green eyes… Apple-green eyes were still the same as before – fixated on Castiel. Castiel looked to his right in confusion… there was no one else in the room. He looked back, expecting to see a strong based comment on his red face, or how that inhaler thing in the stall was just a little too gay. Apple green eyes looked down at the ground.

‘Wwan-n-na go f-for a…. a r-rid-de?'


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK IM BACK OKAY   
> All thanks to my beta Em (deansdemonhair) 

The dripping of the broken sink slowed to a stop, leaving the two boys to face each other in silence, one with his mouth agape and the other with his teeth clenched. They were stiff, unsure of what to do with themselves.

Castiel didn't know what to react to -- the fact that Dean Winchester saved his ass, that Dean Winchester was still near him, or that Dean Winchester even talked to him -- it was too much to process. As Castiel stared at him, the Apple-Green eyes looked up, constant, still, focused on Castiel.

The longer Castiel stared, the more it seemed that everything about Dean Winchester contradicted itself. He could run a mile but his bright red hair was a stop-sign to the Fitness coaches. His lip was pierced with a black pointed ring but it was bruised and peeled -- in fact, as he looked at Castiel he was ripping at the inside of his bottom lip. And his eyes, Apple-Green strung with golden-brown were -- if one looked close enough -- as intricate as the freckles and scars woven into his skin -- if one looked close enough -- but they were confident and steady, almost making up for his voice, which was low and graveled but it halted and choked him like a waterfall down his throat. Every part of Dean Winchester was contradictory, and it struck Castiel in that moment of trying to comply with him.

He ended up blurting, 'But we have class,' a bit more urgently than he wanted to sound. 

Castiel ducked his head in embarrassment. Dean would probably realize he was too much of a goody-two-shoes, if he couldn't tell already, and realize his mistake in even speaking to someone like Castiel.

'Yeah? S-so what?' Dean walked past him and Castiel payed attention to every step he took. His legs bent just a slight bit away from each other, but his steps swung straight, and the second-and-a-half strides reached the turn in the room. Castiel stood, too focused on every move Dean was making to notice him turn around and blink.

'You c-com-ming?'

Castiel dragged his eyes up Dean's figure and opened his mouth, his words halting. Castiel, at first, didn't think Dean was serious. It was already established that he was on a higher level than him in most likely all aspects -- he was faster, taller, and probably just as smart as Castiel; of all the times Castiel glanced over to his right in English when the teacher passed out grades, he never saw a change on Dean's face when he flipped his paper over. No excitement or disappointment -- maybe a blink of a delicate eye, and that was all. Castiel didn't think Dean ever saw him -- not as much as Castiel looked for Dean. There was also, of course, the pushing note that Castiel was late to Math, where they had a small quiz that he spent his spare time digging into last night. He'd get a call home, an 'unexcused absence', and an 'F' on his quiz grade. Dean fit his hands into his pockets, shifting his stance. Castiel looked down at his uncomfortably pulled gym shorts and slanted Converse.

'...Okay.'

Castiel felt his feet move and quickly follow Dean's boots. He felt himself nab the hook of his backpack as they -- or it felt like it -- flew to the door. He felt a blush rise in his chest from the cool air rushing in against Dean's shoulder when it slammed against the door to the parking lot. He felt his fingers grip his inhaler tighter as they strode to a four-door black impala, polished and shining. He felt his heart start to beat urgently when Dean revved the engine and swung the vehicle back and around. He didn't feel his head stop spinning when he turned to face Dean, who had one arm resting atop the wheel, his hand hanging down with spare room for a cigarette, the other resting against the door, and chewing the right side of his lip. But when he blinked, his heart rate slowed once again, his face red against blue. Dean glanced over to Castiel.

'S-somethin' wrong?'

'No,' Castiel cranked his window down to cool the heat across his cheeks. 'I just... Don't like cars much.'

Dean didn't respond, but sped up and swerved, and Castiel squeezed his eyes shut. A minute and a half later, though, he felt the car roll to a stop, and a hand gripped his left shoulder. He snapped his eyes open to see Dean looking at him intently, his lips slightly parted and his brows bent. Castiel sat up, eyes wide, and cleared his throat. Dean's hand darted back to the wheel, his jaw clenched. 

'Sorry. J-just want-t-ted to, uh, make sss...' He swallowed, 'well, t-there's a place off b-bruckn-n-ner Boul...'

'Boulevard.' Dean blinked.

'I go there s-s-somet-times... It's a bit-t f-far, though. D-did-dn't know you... y'know, d-didn't like c-cars. Sorry.'

Castiel didn't want to stare for too long, but he could have looked at every part of Dean for hours in that moment. He didn't have a blush on his cheeks and he wasn't ducking his head, but was blinking at the construction site under the slight overhand the car was parked on. It was a place that couples visited to look at the stars at dusk and into each other's eyes at dawn, but Castiel had no interest in the clouds rolling under the blue summer sky. He was too interested in the way Dean was gnawing his lips, to the color of his hair in the absence of thought, and brushing at his fingers with his thumb in the habit of a smoker. Castiel wondered if Dean smoked, or if he was just trying to make a good impression. Apple-Green eyes blinked, and he wondered if he was worth the trouble. Just then, Dean reached into the inner-right chest pocket of his jacket and drew out a pack of Marlboro Reds, flicked open and used. Castiel watched, throat dry, as Dean drew a red marked lighter out of the glove box, and flicked it aflame. He blew grey smoke out three times before Castiel cleared his throat, eyes watered.

'Uh, I didn't know you smoked.' Dean nodded. 'But, uh...' Castiel looked down at his inhaler, his thumb pushing the lever up and snapping it back down. Dean didn't look at Castiel, kept his eyes on the dry construction site below them, but cranked his window down, flicked his cigarette on his door, and dropped it to the dust. Castiel pushed the inhaler's lever up again. Dean flicked his thumb when the plastic snapped and he cleared his throat.

'Thanks for... that. Didn't think you'd be the kind of person to do something like that.' Dean pulled a sidelong glance at him and swallowed.

'Lik-ke what?' It was Castiel's turn to shrug.

'You know... sticking up for... someone.'

'W-what makes you th-think-k that?' Castiel opened his mouth, but instead turned his head to his open window. Too many times has he said something and ended up with gravel in his mouth. It was best to keep it shut, but he still listened to Dean's thumb hitting against the steering wheel as he flicked his fingers too hard. 'Guess s-so.'

It surprised Castiel. It surprised him to see such cool patience in flames of red hair, to head the flow of a river in the crashes of a waterfall of words. Dean was so close to 'intimidating' that he used silence a weapon that everyone feared, but when he spoke it all got pushed away in a sea of nonchalance and empathy, and wondering and understanding. He seemed to be just the type of bully to avoid, yet he was the one that stopped them.

Like he was reading Castiel's mind, Dean shifted in his seat.

'I c-can be pret-ty rough...' He trailed off, 'but I d-don't like b-bullies.' Castiel didn't say anything in return.

They sat like that for a while, Dean flicking his fingers and shifting in his seat, and Castiel completely uninterested in the men occasionally yelling up at them to get off the ledge. It was almost exciting for Castiel, to know that right now he'd be sitting in the front row of Math Class, squeezing his eyes shut in hopes that his Calculus quiz would disappear when he opened them again. Instead, he was trying not to blink as he thought of what class Dean might be skipping -- if he was planning to skip at all.

His eyes were watering when Dean brought his left hand up and ran it through his hair.

'D-dean,' was all he said, but Castiel didn't need to ask what he meant. He only nodded and mumbled the name under his breath before speaking himself.

'Castiel.'

Dean nodded and Castiel could hear him running his name over his tongue.

'C-...C-casss...' Castiel bit his lip as Dean went through his name. Charlie had always said that his name was a mouthful, even for someone who rambles on about Deadpool for half an hour. He didn't want to think what it was like for someone who didn't utter a word a word for a whole day.

When Dean finished, he nodded, showing no signs of disappointment or embarrassment. Instead, he checked the car clock and adjusted it, then switched the key in the ignition. The car purred to life, quieter than before, and Dean rolled his window up.

'I've go a sh-shift in f-f-fifteen, uh, min-nutes. Where d'you live...'

Castiel looked at Dean in slight shock, the hum of the Impala constant around himself. He blinked and started shaking his head.

'Oh no, I can... god no, I'll walk, it's fine...'

Dean immediately started backing out of the slot. Castiel's mouth was dry, and his hand was still on the door handle when he croaked out, 'Go off of Metcalf Road.'

The journey was slow, and Castiel only closed his eyes when the car swerved to avoid potholes. Neither of them said anything to each other except for directions, but Dean's lips were always parted and Castiel's breaths were deep.

When the rims of the car halted just shy of the marble steps of his house, Castiel ducked out of the car and almost missed the 'Sssee ya, C-c-cas-stiel,' that Dean tripped his tongue over. He turned around to return the farewell, but his words halted as well and he could only drop his hand on the door of the car in acknowledgment. When he got into the house Michael could be seen down the hall, sipping at a cup of White Tea at the kitchen counter. Castiel muttered an agreement to his comment of how early he was home from school, and ran up the stairs two at a time.

That afternoon, Castiel pushed his chair up against his door and yelled to Gabriel that he wasn't hungry for dinner. It was half true. Every time he ran over the events of that day, he became slightly nauseous and didn't need to look in the mirror to know that his face was as pale-blue as his eyes. He groaned when Michael tried to open his door, that he really needed to focus on studying. This was half false. Every time he went over the features of Dean's face he threw his pencil down on his desk and reached for a cup of coffee that wasn't there. He didn't need to look in the mirror to know that his cheeks were as red as the boy's hair.

That night, Castiel snatched the lotion from his bathroom cabinet and sent himself to sleep earlier than usual. The only thing he could really recall the next day were the sounds of slight wheezes and the drawn out, stumbling syllables of his own name.

Monday, October 1, 1995

Castiel pressed his palms against the steel of his coffee mug in an effort to burn himself awake. He had woken up late in the mistake of a weekend sleeper, and had just a few minutes before the bell allowed Ms. Celeste to unleash her detention slips and letters home. The flow of students was quickly dispersing into all the doors that were shutting one by one, and Castiel took two at a time jogging up the wide steps to the third floor. He bumped into two people on the way up, mumbling slight 'Sorrys' but not turning to look at them. Slipping through couples and groups, he managed to take his last step into the classroom and the bell rang, returning Ms. Celeste's glare with a smirk and a shrug, ans sat right down at his desk. He felt confident during that period, but didn't dare to look back.

On the way to history, he let his coffee linger in his lips a little longer, keeping the taste on the tip of his tongue. He was the first -- well, second -- person out of Ms. Celeste's classroom, and he didn't look around. He knocked into three people, one of whom pushed back a little harder. He nodded apologies through pursed lips and didn't swallow until he was in his seat in class.

Castiel didn't stop on the way to Math. His coffee was cold by then, but only half-finished. He went straight through four people and only opened his mouth to breathe when he had his books open on his desk.

At lunch, Charlie hooked her hand around his arm and swung him to face her when he slammed into her and didn't look down.

'Woah, woah there...' She hung on his frame, which was tense and stiff. 'Where you running to? It's lunch... and that hurt.' She rubbed her arm and frowned when he took a sip of his coffee and shrugged. 'What's wrong?' He glanced down at her.

'...Nothing.'

'Okay... What's wrong?' She repeated. Castiel sighed.

'Look, it's really nothing, it's stupid.'

'Oh, so it's an it.'

They stared at each other, challenging one another in the steady current of passing people with cardboard pizza and stale bread. Stand-offs like these happened often -- it was natural for the truth-teller to interest themselves in the one who kept the truths to themselves -- and they were often over curiosity of a small secret, and the secret almost always got told in the end. So Castiel couldn't tell how long it had been until Charlie grabbed his arm and tugged him to a quieter hallway. She stood in front of him with her arms crossed and made a gesture for him to say something.

'You know I'm not gonna let this go until you tell me.'

'But you're gonna think it's stupid!' Castiel protested, though quietly, like a child. 

'Yeah, well, I thought that liking girls was stupid back in '92, and look where we are now.' She nodded her head. 'Spill.'

Castiel sighed, running a hand through his hair and bringing his coffee to his lips.

'I... I went out for a ride on Friday.' Charlie blinked.

'...In a car?' He nodded. 'Wh... Did you drive?' The very thought of that had him swallowing a lump in his throat.

'No, hell no.'

'Well then who --'

'Dean did.'

Charlie's eyes widened and her mouth dropped open the slightest bit. Castiel could feel the heat at the tips of his ears and his chest felt warm.

'Dean? As in... Dean Winchester, Dean?' He shrugged. Charlie brought a hand up to her fire-head hair and blew out hot air. 'Dean? Winchester Dean? Damn Novak...' He nodded and she paused, looking up at him. 'You went on a ride... in a car... with Dean fucking Winchester...' Disbelief crossed her face, 'And you're upset about this why?' Castiel raised his hands in a frantic shrug.

'I...' He started strongly, but paused, his mouth hanging open and his hands held up, grasping at reasons just out of reach. 'I don't know...' Charlie scoffed.

'You're upset because you went out with a guy you're practically in love with --'

'I'm not in love with him!'

'...Massive gay boner or whatever then -- and you can't even think of a reason why!'

'It was just... Awkward!'

'For him or for you?'

'I- I don't know! There was pretty much, like, no conversation, I didn't have a clue what to say, none of it was planned, and... I don't know, I just feel like I was invading his personal space...' Charlie narrowed her eyes.

'So you're not upset that you spent the afternoon with the guy of your dreams --'   
'He's not the guy of my dreams.'

'Oh, sorry, wet dreams.' She looked up at him through her fired fringe. She didn't need fire, though, to bring heat to the ashes in her eyes.

'But you're not upset because of that, you're crying 'cause you think you... fucked up your chances...' Castiel looked down at the hand gripping his coffee. His fingertips were pink.

'...Maybe.'

'And,' she took his chin and tilted it up, so she could look him in the eye. There was no avoiding it. 'Has it crossed your mind in the past two days that you might be wrong?'

'...Maybe not.' He started tracing his finger along the rim of his drink, which she pulled away from him as well.

'Do you have any proof that you're right?'

'Maybe.'

''Experience' with the track stars doesn't count. Have you even seen him today?'

Castiel bit the inside of his cheek. Of course, the truth-teller always knew the truth without hearing the lie. Any flash of red Castiel saw through the day was purposefully blocked by a swig of coffee, collision of shoulders, and 'diligence in class.' When he woke up that morning he nearly sighed in relief at the flashing '7:10' on his clock, because at least the numbers were a near-turquoise that couldn't be close to the color of apples, and the fading dawn sky outside sliced through his dreamy seas of red with fish of purple, and as Castiel walked to school that morning with a slouch of a weekend sleeper he declared that Mondays would be the days that the blue found around the North Pole wouldn't collide with the red that sparked to keep warm, or the green that never grew there. All that consumed him that whole weekend were the fires that Dean Winchester had in him, and what Castiel ignited. He convinced himself through half of Saturday and Sunday, as he always did, that Dean didn't want to hear his unpopular opinions again. Castiel frightened himself, however silly or stupid, into become frightened of seeing Dean Winchester, of Dean Winchester seeing him. By Sunday night he had measured his coffee grounds for the next morning, and the lotion was back in the bathroom cabinet. And although, in the back of his mind Castiel was perfectly aware it was inevitable, he was still trying his hardest to pretend that collision wasn't going to happen. Charlie squinted.

'You have English next.'

Castiel was perfectly aware that it was inevitable. 

 

Castiel finished his coffee in English. He didn't spin his pencil mindlessly to ensure it wouldn't drop and roll out of reach. He raised his left hand at every question asked and ran his hand through his hair, shuffled his papers, fixed his glasses multiple times. He tried to trip his way out of class fist, but once he was in the hallways he could feel the stain of red trailing behind him.

He tried twisting and turning in the crowded hall, but only ended up bombarded by a group of girls with their hair teased and pulled up in pigtails. Castiel sighed and turned around. Dean was striding towards him at a second-and-a-half per step, his boots landing heavy. There was no mistaking it -- he was headed straight for Castiel. Castiel wanted to close his eyes tight, by stood his ground, making his gaze adjust to the ever-approaching red.

Castiel swallowed the lump in his throat as he looked to him. Dean was looking at him sternly, his brows fixed and his lip untouched. He leaned down down closer to him, and Castiel held his breath.

'W-wanna go f-for a rid-de, uh, t-today?'

It was as quiet as ever, washed under the talk of students and occasional snap of a Walkman, and one couldn't read his lips for Dean barely moved them. But Castiel didn't glance down when he gave a dry nod, and before he ducked his head Dean brushed past him, his tongue flicking out and playing with his lip-ring. 

Castiel waited until the bell rang to go to class.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All thanks to my beta Em (ojavenger) 

** Tuesday, October 19th, 1995 **

 

_Every morning in October, Castiel tried to count the leaves he stepped on during the walk to school. He would try to find the leaf of most vibrant red, and he would hold it up with one eye open and try to compare it to the warmest color that the rising sun brought to the sky. He would crumple it into his pocket and forget about the sky when he walked into school, and gripped his coffee when he mingled with the students, eyes squinted but wide. Every afternoon that he walked home, he would draw the ripped leaf out of his pocket and hand it to Charlie, who would give him a smirk and a wink and hold it up to her hair. It was always the perfect color. When she turned left onto her one-way, he would keep his head down to find the lead the was a green most similar to the dying grass, and hold it against the still-blue sky. It was a comfortable sight._

'You are _so_ in love.'

Castiel slammed his head against the wooden desk, making the red leaves on the table gently float up for not a second. Charlie waved at the people around them and bent down to grab a leaf that had fallen off the surface. They were sitting at the New York Library, books splayed open and red leaves scattered around. Leaves were falling outside with the rain that hit the tall windows. The sky was an unpleasant gray and the grass was stamped flat, and Castiel couldn't focus on his work. He only realized that he had been daydreaming when Charlie waved a leaf in front of his face. His coffee mug was dried of a drop, and he rubbed his eyes under his glasses.

'I'm _not_ in love,' he muttered. Charlie twirled a leaf between her fingers.

'What are you then? In _like_?'

Castiel didn't answer her, but instead sighed and propped his head up in his hand. They both knew what they were talking about, and they both knew what the answer was. Castiel didn't like to say it, though. Just more like... _acknowledge_ the fact that for the past few weeks, Castiel had given Charlie thirteen red leaves. Or that every Monday, Tuesday, and _maybe_ Thursday he ran home as the sun was starting to set, a time when neither Michael or Gabriel were home, to make sure the green leaves that he had no where to put hadn't folded or ripped. Or the fact that the only reason he was watching the rain fall from a gray that he had become unfamiliar with on a _Tuesday_ , was because the red was starting to fade, and needed to be dyed and woven again. But Castiel was patient for that.

It was only the end of October and Castiel was well invested in the interest of Dean Winchester. When he was asked to go out again with Dean on that Monday, just over a month ago, he was in shock for the rest of the day. Yet that didn't stop him from going out of the back entrance of the school instead of the front, and recognizing that loud black car that students occasionally looked back at to catch a second glimpse, and the broad body leaning against the trunk of it. They went to the same pier that they visited the Friday before, and Dean drove slow. Castiel took his chances and talked about comics, music, all that he thought he knew, and although Dean didn't say very much, only nodded and quirked his mouth up, he listened, and before Castiel climbed out of the car, Dean turned to him and said his name in a farewell. Castiel bit his lip then, looked down, turned red.

'You can call me Cas,' he said. His voice rasped in the refusal to admit that he spent the last half of the weekend building his fear of seeing Dean, but spent the first half of that weekend writing the alphabet and crossing out the letters in his name that Dean skipped and repeated. When Dean ran the nickname through his staggered breath, he lingered on the 's', like he didn't want to let the name go.

The more they saw each other, the more Dean licked his lips and the less Castiel cleared his throat. Castiel remembered the first time he made him properly laugh -- he made a long 'tssk' sound and his tongue stuck out just the slightest bit. That was also the first time Castiel made his own lip bleed -- he bit down on it in his own smile.

Even so, Castiel wished he could say that his life was forever changed. Just last week he was comfortably under that thought himself. He was warmly learning more about Dean as they sat on that pier. He had a dead-end job at the McDonald's down the road, where he was often called in for shifts that ended right before school started. He told confident stories that didn't seem true, and he was funny only to himself but when he laughed, Castiel laughed. He never smiled about his parents or home, both of which Castiel knew near nothing about. Dean didn't talk about his Father and when Castiel tried to imagine his family, he couldn't even picture a mother. Once, when Dean drove by the middle school to pick up his brother, a quick-walking kid with hair just over his eyes that protested that his name wasn't 'Sammy', but 'Sam', Castiel had to get out at a crosswalk and run home. It was clear that there were things that Dean didn't want Castiel to know, and the next day on the pier, when the sky was an unfamiliar color and Dean reminisced on the impersonal girls he had brought up there at dusk -- 3 since September -- and closed eyes at dawn, it hit Castiel that between he and Dean, the impossibilities were endless. Castiel still watched the stars fade at dawn and left coffee cold in the afternoon, and Dean still swam against the current of words that fell from a cliff and tried to match his lips to his hair, and hid his eyes from the sky. No matter how much was possible between them, they would only go up to that pier when the world was awake, and Castiel found himself increasingly disappointed by that.

Castiel had a sudden urge to check if the green leaves that he had no where to put had wilted and tainted. He dropped his hand from his chin and looked at Charlie. He still hadn't answered her question, and through he didn't need to, he felt compelled to give her a response. He traced the outline of a red leaf with his finger.

'I think I'm in too deep.'

 

** Monday, November 15, 1995 **

Castiel didn't see Dean for the rest of that previous week. His seat in English was empty, the Impala was not parked when Castiel walked out at the end of the day, and although the red had blinked back into his life that Monday, Castiel felt the need to run out to the Impala at the end of school, just to make sure it didn't leave without it. He flew by Charlie, who said in disbelief, 'you're running to a car?' When they started driving, Castiel took a staggered breath and turned to Dean.

'Let's go some place different today,' Dean kept his eyes on the road, 'I didn't have lunch. Let's go to Townhouse.'

Dean didn't look at Castiel, but kept strict control over the wheel to avoid potholes, as he always did. He didn't breathe to speak, or even open his mouth, but turned right onto Baychester instead of left.

They were parked at the restaurant in three minutes. The neon sign in the window was blinking 'OPEN', and there were multiple bikes leaning against the railing at the front. Castiel forbade himself, as Dean held the door open, to imagine this as an afternoon date. The door slammed shut.

The place was busy. There were people sipping coffee at the dark bar, a few kids at the jukebox, and older couples scattered around the corners. They were led to a booth that was flanked by an old freckled African couple with a cap and a shawl, and an East-Asian couple shaking bells that twinkled in their baby's ear. The jukebox started playing in the farther half of the diner, and a waitress poured coffee without asking. She turned around and her hair swung towards Dean. He reached around her and took the sugar and cream, which she -- purposefully or not -- forgot, and bit his lip.

Dean didn't take his jacket off when they sat down, but jerked the sleeves down further and sat straight. Castiel didn't wait for his coffee to cool before he took a sip of it.

'So,' he cleared his throat, 'where have you been?'

Before he even reacted, it was clear that Dean was reluctant to talk. He was stiff, not moving in the way he naturally did. His shoulders were turned so that his jacket pointed out, and his forearms were on the table, but just enough so his elbows weren't. His teeth were threatening to nip his lip, and his piercings were looking irritated. Everything about Dean was uncomfortable, nervous, and Castiel didn't like it. What unnerved him the most was probably how his Apple-Green eyes were flicking from place to place, never finding a gentle place to stay. He licked his lips.

'Had, uh, do-do-double shhhifts at, uh, work.'

'For three days?'

'Well --'

' _And_ during school?'

'Ca-Cas.'

It didn't need saying that Castiel was already finding Dean hard to believe. Double shifts, he could get, But for three consecutive days, and during school hours...

'G-Gordon neede-ded, y'know, some time off. He's g-got, like, anger issssues.'

'You have more than one co-worker.' Dean's eyes flicked away for a second.

'Well... the man-nag...'

'Management.' Dean sighed.

'...Sucks.'

Dean didn't even sound like he believed it. He opened his mouth for just a second, before straightening his sleeves again and reaching for the cream and sugar between him and Castiel. He pulled them closer to himself and poured them into his coffee. His eyes finally settled, if only for a few seconds, on his spoon as it went around the edges of the white cup, and he didn't flinch when a hot drop splashed onto his hand. He moved slow, like there was something behind glass, and he didn't want to scare it.

Something involuntarily rose in Castiel throat as he observed Dean's actions. He understood, just as he had last week. Dean was a secretive person, and no matter how much time they spent together, Castiel wouldn't ever reach the point that he would learn those secrets. It was evident that they were the kind of secrets that love uncovered. It was beyond what a pair of scratched glasses could do. He understood, as he adjusted his frames right then, that this might just be one of those secrets. He understood. He had some of those secrets too. And when he dropped his hand on the table and Dean's spoon clattered he realized, that for whatever untold reason, he might need to move slowly, so as not to scare the one that he was looking at from behind glass frames.

They didn't order any food, and Dean didn't make any remarks on Castiel's earlier claim on appetite. Castiel talked, as usual, and Dean made a joke about his black coffee. One thing Castiel had learned over the past few months was that Dean hated the stuff. The fact shouldn't have brought him down as much as it did in that moment.

'I d-don't know how you, heh, drink the sh-shit.' Castiel finished the rest of his cup in response and Dean made that 'tsk' sound that he did, and ducked his head when his tongue threatened against the confines of his teeth. They left with hands in their pockets, but when the cool sunlight hit Dean as they turned out of the parkway, the red didn't flare back. Castiel squinted his eyes again. It was something he wasn't used to, and he wasn't sure he liked it. He nearly reached out to point it out.

'Weren't you going to dye your hair last Tuesday?' Dean turned the radio on.

'Uh, I got c-called in for, y'know... work.'

Castiel licked his lips and turned back in his seat. He had --for his good reason -- no urge to go home, and he had no motivation to check on his green leaves that had no where to go. He knew they were too crisp, too dry to touch anyway. His eyes followed the short grass that flew by at an unnerving speed. He rolled his head and flicked his eyes to look behind the wheel that Dean hung his hand over, flicking his fingers. They were going 50 mph. His eyes closed for just a second.

'What am I to you?'

Castiel spoke with his eyes shut, not seeing anything but feeling the world moving around him. Everything, except Dean. He was stiff, like in the Diner, like in English class, like when they first met.

'Wh-what do you me-me-mean?' Castiel opened his eyes. Dean swerved to avoid a pothole.

'I mean... what are we? Like... what do I mean to you?' Dean didn't pull his eyes from the road to look at Castiel, but he glanced to the blue sky.

He didn't say anything. Castiel repeated his name twice, one time on purpose, the next lost in the dial of the radio that turned the volume up. Neither of them said anything after that. Castiel watched the grass grow shorter, and Dean watched the clouds that were lit by the sky, but they didn't say anything. There didn't need to be saying, or there wasn't any conversation wanted. Castiel tried to understand, of course. Half of him didn't want an answer to the question anyway, and another was disappointed when the car halted just shy of the marble steps of his house, and Dean was hidden in shadow from the now-setting sun.

Castiel breathed and nodded. He tried to understand. He didn't want to anymore. He tried the door to the car.

'Ca-Cas...' It was locked. Castiel turned to Dean, who was fiddling with the dial on the radio.

'You're my b-b-best friend.'

The door unlocked and Castiel tumbled out. Within seconds he was brushing his pants off and the car was locked again. No more words were said. No gestures were made. But Castiel ran into his house and almost straight into Michael, who was standing straight, looking down, bewildered at him.

'Castiel...' He didn't like hearing his name in such formality.

'Hello, Michael...'

'You're home... later than usual... Why?' Castiel shrugged. Michael was always so busy with perfection that when something was 'out of line', like Castiel coming home an hour late, he felt a need to inquire about it.

'Friends.'

'Friends?' The echo of a smirk flowed down from upstairs, and Castiel looked up to see Gabriel leaning on the railing of the stairs. 'No way.'

'What, you don't think I have a social life?'

'I never said that,' Gabriel started sliding down the railing, 'but you used the word... Friendsss? As in, more than one? Plural?' Michael crossed his arms.

'I too find that hard to believe.' Castiel stepped back in offense.

'Wow, okay, thanks...' Michael didn't move. Gabriel's mouth slid up into a sly grin. 'Wh -- It's the truth, Michael! And Friends, Gabe! As in more than one!'

'So what... two?'

Castiel could feel his throat go dry and his face grow hot, and ducked his head as he shouldered past Michael.

'Awe, our little Cassie's growing up!' Gabe shot up the stairs, followed by Castiel jogging up after him. His laugh echoed back down to the font hall, and Castiel saw no point in chasing after him. He pushed his own bedroom door open and threw his bag away from himself.

'I do have friends! In fact...' He thought of Charlie, and then thought of Dean, 'I have best friends. And... it's Cas!' Castiel slammed his door and pushed his chair under the door handle. He was muttering things only understood by himself, but if someone asked what he was saying, he wouldn't know.

The only thing he did before he fell back onto his bed and groaned into his pillow, was fill his seventh-grade debate trophy with water, and put whatever still-green leaves he had left to float against the sunset-gold.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A MONTH Holy shit sorry about that! Finals like killed me (i didn't fail my math test what) and I finally saw an extremely good friend from tumblr in real life like right after school! The next chapter might take a little while to write but I hope you like this one all the same! xx
> 
> All thanks to my beta Em (ojavenger)

** Tuesday, November, 1995 **

‘Have you ever heard of the Power Rangers?’

The wind settles the weak wood of the small tree house. Charlie was lying on her stomach, surrounded by old vintage comic books that had no place in a house, running her tongue over her teeth as she thumbed through old, sullied papers. Castiel was swinging his legs through the hole in the wood that lacked a ladder and only went one way: down. It was a comfortable day; the summer heat that had boiled the ground was starting to fade, with the light of the sun setting earlier and earlier each passing day. Even at 4:30, the shadow of the tree house was cast against the side of Charlie’s one-story house, and the branches that held it swayed just slightly, stretching out to nearly -- but not quite -- reach each other around the tree house. Castiel was aware, as the shadows grew longer, that at one point he had to go home -- Michael and Gabe were home by 5:15 at the latest -- but he became so fascinated with the length of his legs in the sun, that he hoped that maybe, if he waited long enough, his shadow could pull him in the other direction. A cloud passed over the sun.

‘No, I haven’t.’

He heard Charlie gasp. The pages of her comic book flapped.

‘What? Seriously, Novak?’

He shrugged. ‘Sorry. When was the issue released?’ It had to be newer, if he hadn’t heard about it from Charlie.

‘Last January.’ Oh. ‘Wow, Novak, what had Cherry Bomb done to you?’

All of a sudden Castiel’s face was the respective color of a Shirley-Temple Cherry. Coincidentally, also the same color as Dean Winchester’s hair. He felt himself sigh. It always came back to that color. No matter what he was saying, thinking, whatever colors in his life he was mixing, it always ended up with the same Cherry Red. Which, of course, was washed through a dirty blonde, and then in turn made Castiel blush that exact shade of Cherry Red. And then he was back where he started -- with the color of a Shirley Temple Cherry.

Castiel looked back down at his shadows -- they seemed longer than before.

‘Right, well, I’ve got to go... Michael and Gabe’ll be home soon.’

‘Riiight, and God forbid they catch you with a social life.’ Castiel snorted.

‘They’d kill me if they knew that I hang out with someone who says ‘God’.’

‘Well yea. You’re named after a freaking Angel... Why are you named after a day anyway, but your brothers are what, fucking Archangels? Seems like someone had favorites.’ Castiel snorted again.

‘I’ve got a big family. Like, big.’

‘Like... Baggin’s Family kind of big?’

‘What?’ Castiel widened his eyes, ‘is that something you should even be --’

‘Oh my God, I meant Tolkien, you absolute scrub!’ But Castiel was clueless. ‘Do you seriously not know what I’m talking about?’

Castiel didn’t really want Charlie to know that, quite ironically, Tolkien books were deemed to be a series of Witchcraft and magic in the Novak Family in which, not surprisingly, ‘magic’ was a big no-no. His face was still just a bit red.

‘I’ve just, uh, never read The Hobbit.’ Plain and simple.

Not for Charlie. Papers and books flapped, and she gave such a deep gasp that Castiel thought she just might scream.

‘What? Are you --’ She scrambled to her feet, ‘are you for real?’ Castiel didn’t want to nod.

He nodded.

‘Oh my God! I can’t -- I can’t believe this,’ she yelled, ‘my best friend for nearly four years -- four fucking years has never read The Hobbit! Who the hell hasn’t read The Hobbit? It’s a timeless classic!’ She fell silent and knelt down to his eyes level and squinted. ‘Have you read Lord of The Rings?’ Castiel didn’t want to shake his head.

He shook his head.

Charlie’s face fell ashen, as though the news she was hearing was the end of the world as she knew it.

Castiel knew that he was not very knowledgeable when it came to pop culture -- if someone were to ask what his favorite band was, all he could say was The Spice Girls, or maybe snag a look from a pin on Dean’s jacket. He knew that the Breakfast Club, Ferris Bueller (a film in which he only saw the scene where they were racing home), and Back to the Past... No, Future were considered the best of the best, but he couldn’t even remember the names of them. He knew who Tolkien and Lewis were too, but couldn’t give any evaluation to their characters or storied. He knew Marvel and D.C. well, and was admittedly proud of that, but when he saw Charlie go on her knees and put her head in her hands, like she was doing just then, he wondered if comics were near enough. He didn’t think or ask why -- he just reached his hand out to pat her shoulder.

‘How is that possible...’ she muttered. He didn’t understand.

‘I just don’t know...’

‘I mean, that’s like --’ Charlie’s voice was tight; she was emotional. Castiel didn’t understand. He rubbed his thumb on her shoulder. ‘That’s like, the most important thing in my life, y’know, cause like... you know how my dad, like, he died before I moved here?’ Castiel still didn’t understand, but he nodded. ‘Well, he, like.. He always read Tolkien to me when I was little, and then my mom read it to me, and then we moved here and no one even liked Tolkien and... how you don’t even know what it is ‘cause like... I never told you and it’s just... How can I be so stupid, y’know, to not tell you about the most important thing is my whole life... that’s so fucked!’

Castiel understood. He looked at the shadows on the ground. The sky was turning a warm orange. He needed to go before the elongating shadows pulled him with them. He nodded and reached around Charlie to snag the open book that was laying face-down on the wood. On the corner it read, ‘1/05/95 - POWER RANGERS.’ Castiel nodded again, this time to himself.

‘Looks interesting.’ Charlie looked up. He fanned the pages, ridding it of the dust from the floor. I’ll read it tonight, and if you promise to have The Hobbit to me by Monday, I’ll promise to have it finished by Saturday of next week.’ Charlie looked at him, her eyes wide. He patted her shoulder one last time and ruffled her hair, smiled and slid down through the hold in the floor. He landed, crouched on the grass and gave her a wave before running to the road, Cherry-Red Converse stained by the grass.

The Novak Family's front door echoed shut to a cold front hall and narrow hallways. 5:10. No-one home. Castiel let a deep breath out with his bag that dropped to the floor with his exhale. Houses, in his opinion, were useless when they were empty. But they were even more unnecessary when they were so full that the doors couldn’t be locked. So on days like this, when the house was empty enough to lock the doors and breathe comfortably, Castiel used his time to wander the narrow halls and do whatever he pleased. Once, on one of these occasional days, he got excited -- he knocked over a bust of a religious person that Castiel didn’t care to learn the name of. He spent the rest of the 45 minutes he had left to the empty house, trying to piece the statue back together. He succeeded after 42 minutes and it wasn’t touched or noticed after that, back to normal. Only Castiel knew that if he pushed the statue’s left eye with his thumb, the holy person would fall to the ground once again. He decided to stay away from the statues this time, and went to French-press a cup of coffee; only when he peeked into the bag, there was only enough for one more brew. It was rare, too, expensive and not just found anywhere. Charlie hated it, and so did Dean. Castiel smiled. He didn’t know why.

Sure enough, in three minutes and thirty-six seconds, a silver Mercedes-Benz pulled in front of the house -- Michael’s car. From the groomed backyard Castiel heard rustling, then a door slamming. Gabriel rushed in from the back, grabbing an apple and jumping onto a kitchen stool. He was brushing dirt off his green shirt, which was torn at the collar. Castiel looked him up and down -- he ran home, looked like he raced someone. The Mercedes beeped.

‘What...’

‘Is he in the house yet?’ Gabriel jumped with the question. Castiel squinted.

‘...No.’ Gabriel breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Wh- Is this Ferris Bueller or something?’

‘When have you seen Ferris Bueller?’ It was just that one scene.

‘...I haven’t. Why’d you race Michael home?’

‘He wants us to be home for an ‘important announcement’ or whatever.’ His eyes glinted, but his teeth didn’t show. ‘I was gonna lock you in a closet, but I was running late.’

The door swung open and in walked Michael, suitcase in hand and Armani blazer unbuttoned. His tie was still straight and tight, however, and the creases in his slacks still looked freshly ironed.

‘Hey, Mikey!’ Gabe sing-songed.

‘Don’t call me that.’ Michael strode into the kitchen and placed his case on the island Castiel and Gabriel were sitting at. He once-overed Gabe and frowned. ‘You’re very... unclean.’

‘Uh, Cassie here pushed me. We were just,’ Gabriel scrunched his nose, ‘rough-housing.’ Castiel narrowed his eyes.

‘It’s Castiel... Gabriel.’

‘I don’t know what’s in his pants today.’

Micheal looked back and forth between the two, his expression unchanging. Castiel gave Gabriel a look. _Change the subject._

‘Anywaaaayyy,’ Gabe clapped his hands, ‘you said you had some important announcement about something or other...’ Michael cleared his throat.

‘Right. So I’ve recently been in contact with the extended family, and some of them are going to be visiting for dinner.’

Castiel and Gabriel glanced at one another. Extended family -- the Johnsons, from their Father’s side of the family. Unsurprisingly, they all looked near-freakishly similar as a whole, save Anna and Gabriel, who gained their mother’s lighter traits. The most striking connection was between Hannah, a second or third cousin, Haeley, his first cousin and a sophomore in High School, and Castiel himself. They all had the same dark hair and Arctic-blue eyes, and always got bombarded with cameras to ‘document their growth together’. And Castiel did not like them. Any of them. Sure, Hanna was tolerable -- she was sweet, for a sorority girl. But Haeley was more of a brat than Gabriel. And Zachariah, Haeley’s father who Castiel didn’t really know how he was related, was like a creepy uncle and was over-controlling of the mother Evelyn. And Lucius, the elder sibling of the two, was somehow just slightly worse than Haeley. He was born a day before Michael, and the two never stopped competing against one another. Both Castiel and Gabriel were tired of it, but Gabriel once admitted he looked up to Lucius just a bit. Castiel didn’t know why. He wanted to be at opposite ends of the room from both of them at any given time. Castiel couldn’t explain the lot of them if he had all the time in the world, and he really wouldn’t want to.

Gabriel propped his chin in his hand.

‘When are they coming?’

‘One hour.’

Castiel held a groan back with a strained noise in the back of his throat. God, no, tonight. Not even a day to prepare, and the Johnsons were... picky. If Haeley saw someone eat a cookie that she wanted, she’d throw a kicking fit. If Lucius wasn’t directly across from Michael, who always sat at the head of the unnecessarily long dining table, he wouldn’t eat. If Hannah didn’t get a seat next to Castiel for whatever reason, she’d excuse herself from the table and not come back until dessert. Everything had to be perfect. Even Anna’s old Walnut wicker chair would be pushed in. Even his mother’s Cherry-wood chair was.

‘What time will they be here?’ The question was croaked.

‘7:17 in the afternoon.’ Not much time, not at all. ‘So, Castiel, how much work do you have to do tonight?’ Shrug.

‘Calculus, Chemistry... Some History.’ Curt nod.

‘I’ll excuse you of that to clean tonight. Still can’t believe you didn’t get into Honors Physics though...’ No comment. ‘Gabriel, do you have a shift tonight at your...’

‘Trick shop. I disappear for people,’ tsk, ‘and once again, no magic involved!’ Sigh. ‘And no, I don’t have any shifts.’

‘Well, then help Castiel with cooking. Have everything set by 7:45 at absolute latest,’ the two started shuffling down the narrow hall, through the front hall, to the stairs, to their respective doors, ‘and change your shirt, Gabriel!’ Castiel closed his own door. Right, work. But no homework tonight. Michael yelled just once more. ‘I want your work done by tomorrow afternoon!’

No homework until tomorrow.

|-|-|-|-|

‘Cassie, babe, can you pass the sugar??’

‘Go away, Gabe!’

It was 9:30 at night and Michael was standing outside their front door, conversing with the Johnsons with repeated farewells, his hands in his pockets.

Dinner was less than hell. The first thing that happened when the Johnson family came at 7:09 was cameras, lining all the kids up in a group with Castiel squished between Haeley and Hannah and taking the annual fall family photos. They then all herded into the living room for non-alcoholic drinks except for white whine, and engaged in fifteen minute pristine conversation while the chicken cooled. Castiel had to be restless to match Haeley and her crossed arms. She called Gabriel a scrub with each sentence if no-one was listening, and checked the pager on her hip every five minutes. When Castiel glanced at it, he thought it looked dead. Haeley confused him. He sure wasn’t like that in sophomore year. Castiel also had to continue moving on accord of Hannah -- she followed him wherever he went. It wasn’t as bad as Haeley, though... He had to admit. When, out of the corner of her eye, Hannah caught the millennial making an ‘L’ out of her right hand and sticking her tongue out at Castiel, she shoved her hand in Haeley’s face. She told her to, ‘talk to the hand’, which, judging by Haeley’s curled lip as she strutted away, seemed to do the trick.

At dinner, everyone got what they wanted. Haeley snagged a cookie before Gabriel could look at it, Lucius was comfortably sat at the foot of the table, much to both Michael’s and Zachariah’s displeasure, and Hannah kept just a hand’s length away from Castiel’s right side. She nicknamed and talked to him as much as she pleased, and Castiel couldn’t do anything about it. It’s not that he didn’t like her. Again, she was sweet, for a sorority girl. Gabriel noticed it too. He might have even been a bit jealous at the attention, but still shoved his biscuit into his mouth when she at one point asked ‘Cassie’ if he could ‘pass the sugar.’ There was no sugar on the table, but Castiel was told never to refuse a Johnson. He gave her salt. She didn’t seem to notice any difference.

At one point through dessert and champagne, the elders decided to pry at the children, what their grades were, who their friends were, boyfriends, girlfriends, forbidden inbetween-friends. Castiel was, of course, as vague as fog, but when Hannah interrupted his drawl about advanced levels in school with a claim that she could ‘tie this cherry stem into a knot' with her tongue, he decided to fish the cherry out of his own Shirley-Temple. And he started watching Hannah’s lips move, and he placed the fruit in his mouth, and he tasted red, and he felt himself melt back into bubbles of cherry. He turned back and answered questions with a blush, and at one point cracked a joke. No-one laughed. Not even Hannah. He was frigid again for the rest of dessert, but his cheeks were like the drink he had before him. He didn’t look much like Hannah or Haeley by the end of the night. They noticed.

Cold air rushed into the house with Michael swinging the door open and closed, cheeks pink from the night chill. He was tired, it wasn’t hard to understand. So he just waved Castiel and Gabriel away, and Castiel ran up the stairs to close his door before Gabriel could tag him with more teases. His room was dim, his one curtain open, the moon casting silvery shadows across his room, along with the sole lamp on Castiel’s desk that mixed the grey with gold. His bathroom was shut but the fluorescent crept under the crack of the door. Castiel fell back onto his bed. 9:33. Should sleep. No homework. Can’t sleep. Bored. Won’t sleep. Castiel glanced over to his door to make sure he pushed his chair under the knob firmly enough.

His lotion was never put back into his bathroom cupboard from previous nights, but on the top of his dresser, a perfect arm’s length away. He got himself comfortable in his sheets, adjusting and twisting urgently. He was seeing red, he was feeling red. He needed red. Castiel knew he had a crush, of course, and he wouldn’t call it infatuation unless all he saw when he ever touched his cock was red, red lights, red hair, red drinks, red skies, and the taste of Shirley-Temple Cherries. And Castiel was becoming aware, as he reached under his boxers and started to stroke himself, that he was sinking into red with each time his eyes fluttered closed, flooding and blinking his vision.

The golden light of his single desk-lamp overpowered the silver light of the moon by the time Castiel was fully hard. He reached up to the bottle of lotion and brought back the appropriate amount so his cock wouldn’t burn against every upstroke that his hand twisted on. Castiel thumbed over the head of himself to mix the increasing amount of pre-come with the cool lotion as he began to speed up. He turned his wrist as he increased the speed of his hand and suddenly everything was red. His cock was flushed and a blush ran from his chest and warmed the tips of his ears. Everything about him was red, his breathing was getting heavier, more labored and the taste of that Shirley-Temple Cherry was staining his mouth. Without knowing, without controlling, his red-hot tongue started whispering as his back started arching.

‘De... Dee... Dee...’ He breathed with each constant stroke, more intense, more bubbles, more red, until his back arched to lift off of his blue mattress and he came with a yell of, ‘DEA--’, only to be interrupted by a knock on his door. Michael, trying to turn the knob, asking what was going on. Castiel’s breath caught in his flushed throat, and he forced himself to finish his scream with a long yell of ‘’D’ EQUALS ROOT X-TWO MINUS...’, Reciting the formula for Distance off the top of his head. He sighed and reached for a towel or shirt off the ground to wipe the scattered dots of come he left on himself, and as he fell back into his mattress, body newly-exhausted, he wondered if he could declare Shirley Temple to be his new favorite drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta's tumblr: [ojavenger](https://ojavenger.tumblr.com)
> 
> My own tumblr: [scarlettcharlie](https://scarlettcharlie.tumblr.com)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while!! So this one's a little longer. xx
> 
> All thanks to my beta Em (ojavenger)

**_ Monday, January 8, 1996 _ **

It was the first day back from a much-needed Winter Break. The Halls of Truman High were once again buzzing with stories of kisses under the mistletoe, new cars, and ski trips. But for Castiel, of course, none of that ever happened. On Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and New Years, Castiel spent his time getting dragged by the necktie into Church, and all other days of holiday were spent on his bed, watching snow fall and pile onto his windowsill in its silent flight. It was a typical schedule, really, but this was the first year that Castiel didn’t mind the silence. This year, he could spend all of the time in the world imagining how flying snow would look mixed with now-blue hair. It made him want Winter Break to never end, but he would then be reminded of grassy meadows in green eyes, and couldn’t wait for the ice to melt. Castiel would imagine the stars that disguised themselves as freckles and would become excited at the thought of clear summer nights... and leaves. Leaves falling off of trees like words leaving a locked room, made Castiel want to turn back time to a magnificent autumn... Until he opened his eyes and found himself back in winter, the season of frozen time and ocean-blue hair.

The was how Castiel passed the time, locked away in a room, flicking through the seasons like an endless film reel. And to be truthful, he didn’t really stop revolving until a firm shoulder knocked him onto a newly-waxed floor, sending papers and coffee in all directions.  
Castiel blinked and found himself no longer in winter, but on the all-too-familiar floor of the school hallway yet again. He looked about himself and sighed, disappointed that his daydreams were not only interrupted, but completely terminated until the next spring break.

Castiel had come to terms with how smitten he was with Dean Winchester.

Like last time, and the time before that, he scrambled to find his glasses -- he was useless without them, anyway. But today was a jungle of snow boots and long pants, which only made Castiel more pressed for time, all-too-afraid of going home with a pair of cracked lenses. Fortunately, he saved them from a pair of Dirty Timberland’s. Unfortunately, that pair of dirty Timberland’s belonged to none other than Mark Crowley, Truman Jock Superstar. Castiel raised his gaze to look up at the senior, and gulped.

‘Crowley.’

Crowley smirked.

‘Castiel Novak. Fancy bumping into you, first day back.’ He bend down to lift Castiel’s inhaler off of the ground, and out of reach, ‘is this yours?’

‘C’mon, Crowley, I need that...’ Castiel was already itching to cough. ‘I’ll give you my... lunch, something like that, alright?’

‘Eh, Lunch doesn’t give the same satisfaction, y’know what I mean?’ Suddenly two other brutes were accompanying him. ‘What’s the matter, Novak? Dyke’s not here to save you?’ Castiel could feel his cheeks grow red.

‘Shut up about her, Crowley,’ he scrambled up to stand a few inches above the other boy’s head, but then remembered his... accomplices. He took a step back, face hot. Crowley stood in front of him, having not moved an inch, but looking a bit surprised. After all, when has Castiel Novak stood up for himself, let alone someone else?

‘Woah, there, Angel. Your boyfriend’s not here to protect you, remember? You’re gonna want to stay in your lane while we teach you a lesson, Slick.’ The papers and spilled coffee were long forgotten as Castiel stepped over them, away from the trio.

‘He-- he’s not my... He’s not my boyfriend.’

‘Oh, but you wish he was, you little--’

‘ _Hey!_ ’

Crowley was interrupted by a yell from down the hall, behind Castiel. Castiel turned around to see none other than his ‘boyfriend,’ standing in the chill of winter that had been blown away by the heat of the school. His cheeks and ears glowed a soft punk, and his deep blue hair was styled in a soft mess. Early-morning snowflakes were still melting into the color.

Yep. Castiel Novak was completely, utterly smitten with Dean Winchester.

Dean looked at the group and clenched his jaw, walking through the crowd. His eyes were fixed on Crowley, who had grown red, and the closer he got, the wider his stride became. Before Castiel knew it, before Dean was five feet away, and Crowley and his crew were like cartoons, running so fast that they left their outlines in dust. Castiel’s inhaler dropped to the floor.

As soon as Dean reached Castiel, he gripped the boy’s shoulder and bent to look him in the eye.

‘C-Cas? You ok-k-kay?’ Castiel was simply looking at Dean -- he was at a loss for words. Dean jolted him. ‘Casss?’

‘Yeah... I’m fine...’ Castiel was quiet, but truthful. It wasn’t like they actually managed to do anything to him -- Dean arrived just in time. Castiel was simply... in shock. Plain and pure shock. Never before had someone stood up for him like that, not even Charlie. This was a first-time occurrence for Castiel -- and it sure didn’t dampen his thoughts about Dean.

Dean looked at the ground around them and looked back to Castiel.

‘You sssure?’

Castiel’s mouth was dry but he nodded curtly.

‘We, um... we’d better get to class,’ he croaked before he bent down to sweep his project off of the floor, indifferent to their stains and tears. He stuffed them into his bag and started shouldering his way through the jumble of students.

‘Casss?’

He looked back at Dean, a lump in his throat and an obvious blush on his cheeks.

‘Where are you g-g-g... Going? Chemissstry is th--’ he took a breath, ‘that way.’ Dean pointed behind himself, to the end of the hall where Ms. Celeste’s room 304 stood, always cold and uninviting. Castiel could feel his face growing hotter by the second. Of course he was going to Chemistry... where else did he think he was going? He gave a short nod and hurried past Dean, unable to look him in the eye. He just couldn’t bring himself to handle something like that -- he had been dreaming of the four seasons all winter break, but seeing Dean in person again was like being frozen, stuck in time.

Castiel had absolutely no clue how to hide how smitten he was with Dean Winchester.

|-|-|-|

For most of that first day back, Castiel got scolded, reprimanded, and punished for not paying attention in class. He didn’t seem to know any of the answers to classroom questions, and left all of his papers without his name. Of course, it wouldn’t take three guesses to figure out why.  
It was like Dean was trying to Castiel’s breath. Every nervous movement he made was utterly distracting and left him with a dry mouth and short breaths. When English came around, where they sat next to each other and Castiel could almost doze off counting each freckle on Dean’s face, he swore that each breath would be his last.

On the first day back from vacation, it was only natural for Mr. O’Malley to assign the students their first (and most likely last) partnered project of the year. It didn’t take long for groans and cheers to travel around the room as he paired everyone up; but Castiel held no objections when he pointed at Dean and himself and put them together. He could feel the burning gazes of every girl in the room, but they immediately slipped away as he turned to see Dean’s gaze fixed on him, a grin spread on his face.

After school that day, Dean and Castiel took their regular drive up to the dry pier that was now glowing in snow. Dean has a gentle smile on his fave the whole drive up, which made Castiel indifferent to the fact that the heater was broken. They parked to sit in a comfortable silence with the static radio playing a sound of soft white noise. Dean was looked up at the grey clouds that reflected the dirty snow covering Co-op, his eyes glazed and unfocused. Castiel had his eyes fixed the same way, but on Dean, and the clouds that he breathed against the cold air. His lips were cracked and dry, and his hair was the color of deep blues that could only be found on a warm summer’s night, down by a beach in Cape Cod. It contrasted richly against the snow and light clouds that blanketed the Bronx. Castiel Castiel was always curious as to how Dean chose his colors, and this certain choice caught his eye the most. Normally, he tried to bite his tongue from curious questions -- Dean’s usual response of ‘just felt like it,’ taught him that -- but he really found himself compelled to become acquainted with a color often found in late-July; especially when it was the beginning of January.

He broke the comfortable silence.

‘Why’d you choose that color?’

Dean pulled his eyes form the clouds. ‘Hm?’

‘That color -- the blue,’ Castiel pointed to Dean’s hair, ‘why’d you choose it?’

‘Oh...’ Dean widened his eyes, ‘why? D’you no-t-t-t l-like it?’ He seemed awfully concerned with Castiel’s opinion for once -- it caught Castiel off guard,  
and he immediately shook his head.

‘No! I’m just wondering, is all. I always do, really...’

Dean nodded and sank back into his calmer state. ‘W-’

‘And don’t tell me you ‘just felt like it.’’ Dean sighed.

‘Fine. I sssaw the c-color, and...’ he paused for a moment, flicking his tongue over his lips in a contemplation to continue. Castiel sat up straight.

‘And?’

‘It--’ Dean rolled his eyes, ‘it rem-minded me offff... o-of-f-f...’ He closed his eyes and swallowed. ‘It remind-ded-d me offf you.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, y-you, alright? Th... the color b-blue, reminds me --’

He opened his mouth, but no more words came out -- it was like he was waiting for them to arrive. By now, though, Castiel knew what it was: a speech block. Dean was having a really difficult time saying this. They sat there, silent, until Dean closed his eyes and eventually closed his mouth. Over time Castiel had learned not to finish Dean’s sentences, but this certain occasion made it clear that he was welcome to. He talked slowly.

‘The color blue... reminds... you of me.’

Dean nodded quickly, opening his eyes and taking a deep breath.

‘Yeah.’

‘Why?’ Castiel couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. He could feel his mouth curling up into a soft but casual smile. ‘I’m nothing special... and why blue?’ Dean’s eyes widened and he dropped his jaw in disbelief. He became animated once again.

‘Are you k-k-k... Kidding me? Why?’ He laughed incredulously. Castiel shrugged. ‘Dude, h-have you ssseen your eyes?’

‘My eyes?’

‘Yeah! Y-your eyess... your eyes are f-fuck-king inssane! Th-they’re, like, the bluest thhhings I’ve ever ssseen!’

They stared at each other, eyes wide and smiles crooked. Castiel was in absolute, pure, blissful disbelief that Dean was saying these things. To him. It was surreal, almost too-good-to-be-right -- for the first time in weeks, Castiel’s heart felt like it was right where it belonged -- not in his throat, blocking his words; not in his gut, disrupting his stomach -- it was right in his chest, beating proudly, comfortably. Dean licked is lips and smiled a toothless grin.

‘Ssso, when I sssaw it, it was-s, y’know, sorta the same c-c-color as, y’know...’ He pointed at Castiel’s eyes, wide behind his glasses, ‘a-and, I thought, ‘I should t-t-tot... tot-t-tally wear this, ‘cause, y’know, you’re m-my best friend, Cas...’

Dean trail off, then, but he didn’t need to say any more. He had already said all that Castiel needed to hear, for the rest of the day, the week, the year... the year that he’ll always have to keep himself from wearing his heart on his sleeve, where it really belonged... and then the whole of Senior year too... oh, it was incredibly hard to resist the temptation now, right next to Dean, looking at him in his rawest state illuminated by the already-dim sky. Three words were on the tip of his tongue... the moment was right in front of him...

Dean shook his head.

‘That wasss really g-gay,’ he breathed, and laughed at himself. He wasn’t looking at Castiel anymore.

The moment was gone.

Castiel felt his smile fall off of his face and get carried away with the wind, and cast his eyes from Dean.

‘Yeah,’ he muttered. Dean chuckled.

‘I g-got-t-ta get with ssomeone now, t-to forget it, hah... I wonder what Amand-da Heck-kerling is doing t-t-tonight...’ He trailed off and glanced at Castiel. It was evident that he noticed his sudden silence, as he cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. ‘I’m glas I g-got you as m-m-my... My English p-part-tner, though.’ Castiel simply nodded in agreement. He could feel Dean’s gaze fixed on him, waiting for him to make a movement. He was probably wearing his heart very obviously on his sleeve, but at the moment he quite frankly didn’t care. All he really wanted to do anymore was sleep; for once, he was very tired. He supposed Dean got that feeling as well, because a minute later the car’s engine was purring and they were backing out of the small pier space.

The ride to Castiel’s house was wordless, but before Castiel closed the door behind him, Dean called his name in that low voice he only seemed to use for him. Even in his cold stomp, he wondered if Dean knew how that voice made him melt. Castiel turned around and looked at Dean with wordless question. He hadn’t even noticed how uncomfortable Dean looked until then, and immediately felt guilty. He looked at Dean’s glazed eyes and clouded breath, and suddenly couldn’t stop himself from blurting out another question, ‘do you miss it?’

‘Do you miss smoking?’

Dean looked at him with an expressionless ace. There was no question or curiosity in his eyes. He didn’t bite his lip, and he didn’t breathe deeply before he answered Castiel, his gaze locked on his eyes.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘You.’ Dean didn’t miss a beat, and Castiel only nodded. ‘Project’s due M-Monday. I’ll pick you up-p-p... Sssat-turday. We’ll w-w-work on it then.’ Castiel nodded again before he closed the car door, but stayed outside as Dean backed up and drove down the long driveway. He bit his lip as the car drove further away.

There were many times where Castiel could have spilled his heart out to Dean. There were many spaces of comfortable silence that he could have filled. But there weren’t any moments. No. As the Impala turned onto the main road and sped away, Castiel understood. He understood, as the cold nipped his ears and the walked up the marble staircase.

The moment was never gone.

The moment never existed.

By the time Castiel reached his doormat, he was convinced that the flush across Dean’s freckles when he drove off was simply from the bitter, biting cold of winter.

 

**_ Saturday, January 13, 1996 _ **

As per usual on a Saturday morning, Castiel was awake and brewing a dark cup of Chromatic Coffee’s ‘Holy Mountain’ by 7:30; he had only really managed to get about four hours of sleep.

Aside from the fact that he was still head-over-heels for Dean Winchester, other things still chugged on like a toy train: his brothers still teased him, he still took obscene amounts of medication before going to bed, and he still didn’t actually sleep when he was supposed to. So here he was, once again, waiting as the coffee machine chugged on, staring outside his window at dirty grew snow under a rising sun. Michael was already out the door and Gabriel was still asleep; it was just like a typical Saturday morning, nothing particularly special about the time, date, or weather.

The only thing that really seemed out-of-place, was Castiel’s heart. It was beating a mile a minute.

Today was the day that Castiel would be visiting the lovely home of Dean Winchester. It would be, of course, for a project, not some sort of ‘Meet the Family’ kind of deal. Dean rarely mentioned his father, and never talked about his mother... the only person Castiel had even met was his little brother Sam. He always wondered why, of course, but never pried. As far as he knew, Sam was Dean’s whole family, just a small kid with shaggy brown hair. The visit wasn’t supposed to be anything special, but Castiel’s sweaty palms seemed to be thoroughly convinced that it was.

When Dean swung around his house at 12:23 to pick Castiel up, he was already outside, standing on the cold stone steps and hugging his cashmere sweater. He wasted no time in ducking into the car, only to remember that the heater was broken, and hugged his arms tighter. It was a cold, dark day with clouds that wouldn’t tell whether it would snow, storm, or both.

As traffic got thicker and the journey got longer, Castiel was silent in the imagination of what Dean’s house would look like. He could certainly picture a cozy cabin in a forest, but the location of Co-op City eliminated that possibility. He loved to the that Dean lived in a warm-lit house or apartment, with dark wooden floors and an open layout... He did, admittedly, imagine the scene in comparison to his own place. But no matter how hard he tried, Castiel simply couldn’t imagine Dean in a Novak-esque home. It was impossible.

When they did pull up to their destination, though, even Castiel was thoroughly surprised; his expectations and imaginations blew into dust. Dean’s house was... not actually a house, nor an apartment. It was a motel. A one-floor, one-parking lot, dirty, cheap... motel.

They didn’t say anything to each other as they got out of the car and strode to a red door. Dean swiftly unlocked it, and they stepped into room number 19.

As Castiel looked around the one-room home, it all clicked as to why Dean never talked about his home: he didn’t have one. Just a dusty, two-bed room that was booked out for months. Unwashed clothes were scattered everywhere, leftover fast-food was spilled over the time kitchen counter, and only one bed looked made. It wasn’t a home to Castiel, Hell, it was barely even habitable.... but it was evident that it was all Dean had.

The look of horror must have been evident on Castiel’s face, as Dean started kicking the clothes under the unmade bed, and shoving things out of the way of his guest.

‘Ssssorry about the messs,’ he rushed, ‘Sssammy gets lazy...’

‘I’m not lazy!’ A door in the back of the room opened and Dean’s little brother walked out of what was presumably the bathroom. ‘And it’s Sam.’

Dean strode over to rustle the kid’s hair and smirked as his hand was swatted away.

‘Cut it out!’

Throughout the whole interaction, Castiel stood by the door either unnoticed or un-cared about. He licked his lips and cleared his throat. It wasn’t that he craved Dean’s attention -- after all, him and Sam were brothers -- but he hated to admit that he was just a bit disappointed in it all... the car ride, the room... he almost just wanted to get the project over with and get back to the confinement of his own house. Dean’s hand snapped back, realizing Castiel’s presence once more, and nodded his head.

‘Okay, let’s ssstart...’ he began, before sleeping his head on his forehead. He apparently remembered something. ‘Shit.’

‘What?’ said Castiel and Sam simultaneously. Dean sighed.

‘We need a posst-ter board. I have to g-g-go and g-g-get it.’ He pulled his keys out of his coat pocket and looked at Castiel. ‘I’ll be back-k-k real sssoon.’ He glanced at Sam once more before pulling the front door open and leaving without a word. Castiel’s cheeks flushed red at the cold. He turned to look at Sam, who was looking at the door, equally confused.

‘Why’d he do that?’ Castiel found himself asking. Sam shrugged.

‘...I dunno.’ Castiel’s eyes stayed fixed on Sam as the boy walked to the small couch against the wall. Sam was still looking at the door. ‘You’re here for a project, right?’

‘Yeah. English.’ Castiel crossed the room to sit down on the bed that was made. The covers were red and white, and Castiel traced the patterns with his finger. ‘Why d’you ask?’

‘Didn’t really seem like it.’ Castiel looked up.

‘What?’

‘Dean was just making a... kinda big deal about it all. I was wondering why.’ Sam shrugged again and Castiel felt his ears go red.

‘Oh, well,’ he returned his gaze to the pattern on the bed, ‘this is really the first time I’ve actually seen something of... him. I, er, don’t know much else.’

‘Really? I wouldn’t guess it. He talks about you all the time, I’ve even asked him if he... y’know,’ he mimicked a ‘batter up’ pose, ‘swings for the other team.’

Castiel’s hear leapt in his chest. Was he? Was Dean gay? Or... bisexual, given the amount of girls that have been up on that pier with him... Castiel almost got his hopes up, but then remembered what Dean said the last time they went out. No... it couldn’t be possibly. There was no use in asking. He ended up just simply shrugging. He wanted to turn the conversation.

‘He doesn’t talk about you... or your parents.’

Sam stiffened and trained his eyes to the floor. So, parents weren’t a sensitive subject to just Dean... it affected Sam too. Castiel almost expected the kid to do what Dean did and frantically change the subject, but the boy stayed calm.

‘Parents...’ he started, ‘yeah, I get that.’

‘Why?’

There was a pause and Sam stared at the floor as if it had the answers of what to say next. He let out a breathy sigh. He let out a breathy laugh.

‘There’s dysfunctional... and then there’s my family.’

‘Wh -- What about that?’

‘Okay... first, you have to promise you won’t tell Dean I said this.’

Castiel drew an ‘X’ over his chest.

‘Cross my heart.’

Sam still looked wary, but carried on. His eyes were once again on the front door.’

‘Okay, well... there’s our Dad, who’s um...’ he swallowed, ‘not nice.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Dunno. Only comes around every few weeks, and those days...’ he trailed off.

‘And those days...’

‘Aren’t fun.’

‘Does he... drink?’

Nod.

‘Does he... hit you?’

‘No. Dean always comes in between us.’

‘So Dean... gets it.’

‘Yeah. You know,’ he glanced at Castiel, ‘his stutter wasn’t always so bad. But Dad tried to... get it out of him. It just made it worse.’  
Castiel thought back to the occasional days that Dean wasn’t around, or claimed to have double shifts at work. He was always so confused every time he pulled back from him, but it all made sense now; why the words worsened, what the ‘oil splashes’ really were... Castiel found himself feeling extremely guilty that he had not known. He paused a moment before he continued.

‘And... your mother?’

‘Oh... Dean didn’t tell you about her?’ Sam looked surprised once more. Castiel shrugged. ‘Hmph. I was sure he must’ve.’

‘Is she... dead?’ Sam shook his head.

‘No... but Dean argues that she’s worse off sometimes.’

Castiel looked at him, eyes squinted. Sam took a deep breath.

‘She’s in a Mental Ward.’

Castiel’s eyes widened. His mouth went dry.

‘A... A mental...’

‘Yeah.’

‘Wh -- What happened?’

‘She thinks ghosts are real. Like, monsters.’

‘Monsters?’

‘Yeah. Demons, Vampires, stuff we’ve never even heard of before. She’s always said she sees them, which wasn’t really too much of an issue until she attacked a police officer... they brought her in and immediately padded her up, locked her in. They diagnosed her with Schizophrenia.’

‘Schizophrenia?’

‘Once of the worse cases they’ve had, too.’

‘So... she’s there now?’

‘Yup. Dean normally goes to see her on the weekend, but--’

‘Had to cancel because of me.’

‘Yeah, that’s why I thought it was such a big deal that you were here... until I realized,’ Sam stoof up and went over to the coat closet, where he pulled  
out a blank poster board. ‘We’ve already got all the supplies for the project.’

Castiel stared at Sam in bewilderment.’

‘So, you mean, he’s out to see her right now?’

Sam nodded.

‘Nothing’s more important to Dean than our mom... and taking care of me. He’s only ever brought me along with him to visit her.’

‘Why hasn’t he brought me, then? Or... told me about all of it? Any of it?’ Castiel couldn’t help blurting it out, but Sam seemed to agree.

‘I’ve been wondering that, too... I mean, he always talks about you, y’know... seemed like he really cared.’

‘Cared...’

‘Yeah. About you.’

 

**_ Friday, January 19, 1996 _ **

Castiel tapped his fingernails on his desk as he watched Mr. O’Malley sliding graded rubrics onto students’ desks. He had already stormed through their project, and the moment of truth was upon them. If Castiel was honest, though, he wasn’t expecting much. When Dean had returned from his ‘errand run’ that Saturday, Castiel was thoroughly disoriented and thrown off, and ended up going through the project completely unfocused. There was so much to shuffle through in his mind. Dean had a mother and a father, but one was in a Mental Hospital and the other was a hard-knock drunk... and Dean cared for Castiel, but apparently not enough... so now Castiel wondered just how important he was to Dean... and how important Dean was to him. It definitely didn’t help him sleep peacefully, if at all.

So Castiel was really indifferent as to what number was written on that rubric; there was so much else going on. When he flipped his paper he showed no signs of surprise or sadness, even under the disapproving look of Mr. O’Malley. 63. He’s done better, and everyone knew it, but he didn’t have the energy to make a fuss of it.

What did surprise him, however, was Dean’s reaction.

It was a look that Castiel hadn’t really seen on Dean, let alone in reaction to a grade. It was a look of... dismay. He had gotten the same mark: 63. Castiel looked at him in confusion and concern.

‘...Are you alright?’ He nodded but the expression on his face didn’t change. ‘You don’t normally care about grades so much, Dean...’  
Dean shook his head... and then continued to surprise Castiel even further. He glanced around and leaned into Castiel.

‘I d-don’t care,’ he whispered, ‘but you d-d-do.’

‘Me?’

‘Yeah. I knnnow how im-p-portant thisss stuff is to you.’

Castiel leaned back to look at Dean. Was he sad... for him? Because Castiel got a bad grade? He was near speechless.

‘I... I didn’t know it mattered that much to you.’

Dean scoffed.

‘Of c-course it ma-t-ters, it’s you.’

Now, Castiel was rendered completely speechless. Him. Dean was upset... because it mattered to him. To Castiel. It was that important... he was that  
important.

‘It... it doesn’t matter to me, Dean,’ his own voice was just as quiet.

‘What?’

‘It’s... it’s just a grade, y’know? Who... who cares?’

‘Your brothersss...’

‘Fuck them! So, Michael’ll have a go at me, Gabe’ll love it. It doesn’t matter, Dean. It really doesn’t.’

The two of them were silent for a little while, before Dean narrowed his eyes.

‘Why?’

Castiel knew what he wanted to say. He almost really did... but as always, he bit his tongue, and told the world what it wanted to hear.

‘It’s not important.’

That seemed to suffice, and the bell rang. The all dispersed, grabbed their bags... and Dean put his face of stone back on and strode away from Castiel, who could feel his heart in his throat.

_It’s not important, of course it’s not important._

You are.


End file.
